THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  JOY  OF  GARDENS 


By 

LENA  MAY  McCAULEY 


"7n  Paradise  a  garden  lies" 


RAND  McNALLY  AND  COMPANY 

CHICAGO  NEW  YORK 


Copyright,  IQII, 
BY  RAND.  MCNAI.LY  &  COMPANY 


455 


FOREWORD 

ANY  book  about  gardens,  written  for  the  pleasure  of 
writing,  must  have  its  sources  in  dreams.  The 
visions  of  gardens  beautiful  and  retired  hover  before 
the  imagination,  and  no  real  garden,  however  humble,  but 
is  invested  in  celestial  light  of  cherished  hopes  of  what  it 
may  become  in  fragrant  flowers  or  what  it  might  have  been 
had  fortune  been  kind. 

The  facts  and  the  fancies  of  this  book  were  discovered 
in  various  gardens,  some  centuries  old,  fruitful  of  memories 
of  those  whose  hands  have  long  since  turned  to  dust,  others 
in  the  joyous  public  gardens  with  parterres,  and  the  most 
precious  of  all  in  the  quiet  gardens  of  my  friends. 

"Gardening,"  said  a  wise  writer,  "is  among  the  purest  of 
pleasures,"  and  one  tossed  on  the  fretful  world  knows  that 
there  is  no  purer  delight  than  that  which  comes  to  the  human 
heart  with  friends  in  gardens.  To  many  friends,  far  and 
wide,  I  owe  whatever  inspiration  lives  in  these  pages. 

The  illustration  of  the  book  was  an  afterthought  carried 
out  in  the  desire  to  suggest  the  art  of  landscape  gardening. 
Credit  is  gratefully  recorded  to  those  who  aided  with  the 
pictures,  and  especially  to  Jens  Jensen,  Jessie  T.  Beals, 
Mary  H.  -Northend,  J.  Horace  McFarland,  W.  H.  Rau, 
Henry  Fuhrman,  E.  L.  Fowler,  Alice  Enk,  and  Mode 
Wineman. 


vi  FOREWORD 

The  gardens  enhanced  by  landscape  art  are  beautifying 
our  country,  but  the  most  joyful  gardens  are  the  little  planta- 
tions of  flowers  about  homes  everywhere  and  beyond  the 
reach  of  the  camera. 

L.  M.  McC. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

List  of  Illustrations ix 

ON   WINGS   OF   HOPE i 

A  PRELUDE  OF  HEAVEN'S  HARMONY.     ".....     10 

THE  DELIGHTS  OF  FAITH 20 

WHEN    SPRING    AWAKES 28 

SWEETNESS    AND   LIGHT 37 

THE  USES  OF  ADVERSITY 47 

WHEN  SOUL   HELPS   FLESH 56 

As  FANCY  FLIES 65 

THE  HIGH  TIDE  OF  JOY 74 

THE  ODORS  OF  ARABY 83 

ET  [IN  ARCADIA  FUISTI 94 

WHEN  BEES  COURT  THE  CLOVER .   104 

IN  MIDSUMMER  FIELDS 113 

A  CARNIVAL  OF  GOLD 122 

THE  FRIENDSHIP  OF  FLOWERS 131 

HERBS  o'  GRACE 141 

WHEN  AUTUMN  LINGERS 151 

MY  LADY  DAHLIA  TAKES  THE  AIR 160 

IN  ELYSIAN  FIELDS 170 

ESCAPED  FROM  GARDENS 182 

OF  DRIFTWOOD  AND  DREAMS 193 

IN  GOD'S  ACRE 203 

Appendix 211 

vii 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

A  Water  Garden  at  Altadena,  California      .      .     Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

A  Bit  of  Formal  Garden,  "Wychwood,"  Lake  Geneva, 

Wisconsin i 

A  Garden  on  Long  Island,  New  York 4 

A  Garden  at  Manchester,  Massachusetts  ....  8 

A  Garden  at  Harrisburg,  Pennsylvania 12 

Rose  Gardens  near  New  Rochelle,  New  York  ...  16 

A  Garden  at  Winnetka,  Illinois •.  .  20 

A  Rose  Garden  at  Thomasville,  Georgia 28 

A  Water  Landscape  Garden  at  Glencoe,  Illinois  .  .  32 

A  Garden  on  Long  Island,  New  York 37 

Purple  Phlox,  West  Parks,  Chicago  ...  .  .  44 
Rose  Gardens  of  Madame  Modjeska,  Los  Angeles, 

California 48 

A  Garden  at  Bar  Harbor,  Maine 52 

A  Formal  Garden  at  Prides  Crossing,  Massachusetts  .  56 

A  Garden  at  Stockbridge,  Massachusetts  ....  60 
A  Water  Garden  at  Tulane  University,  New  Orleans, 

Louisiana 65 

Garden  at  the  Longfellow  Home,  Cambridge,  Massa. 

chusetts  68 

A  Garden  at  Manchester,  Massachusetts  ....  76 

Villa  Tasca,  Palermo,  Italy 80 

A  Garden  at  Altadena,  California 84 

In  the  Boboli  Gardens,  Florence,  Italy 92 

A  Japanese  Garden  at  Wynnewood,  Pennsylvania     .      .  96 

A  Formal  Garden  at  New  Haven,  Connecticut   .      .      .  100 

A  Garden  at  Katonah,  New  York     .      .      .      .      .      .  104 

Garden  at  "Egandale,"  Highland  Park,  Illinois  .  .  106 


x  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

FACING   PAGE 

A  Pergola  in  a  Los  Angeles  Garden 113 

Garden  of  Mabel  Osgood  Wright 1 1 6 

House  and  Garden  at  Bar  Harbor,  Maine     ....  124 

Water  Garden  and  Pergola  at  Ellenville,  New  York     .  128 

A  Garden  at  Winnetka,  Illinois 132 

Peacock  Garden  of  Ernest  Thompson  Seton,  Cos  Cob, 

Connecticut 136 

A  Garden  at  Ardmore,  Pennsylvania 141 

A  Garden  near  Philadelphia,  Pennsylvania       .      .      .  144 

A  Formal  Garden  at  Brookline,  Massachusetts      .      .  148 

Approach  to  a  Water  Garden,  Lake  Como,  Italy     .      .  152 
Autumn  Garden,  Garfield  Park,  Chicago     ...      .156 

A  Formal  Garden  at  Beverley  Cove,  Massachusetts   .  160 

A  Terrace  Garden  at  Lake  Forest,   Illinois       .      .      .  164 
Terrace  Walk,  Home  of  Mrs.  Frances  Hodgson  Burnett, 

Kent,  England 172 

Home    of     John    D.     Rockefeller,     near     Tarry  town, 

New  York 176 

Water  Garden  at  Lincoln  Park,  Chicago 181 

Court  of  the  Sultana,  Generalife  Palace,  Granada,  Spain  184 

A  Formal  Garden  on  Long  Island,  New  York  .      .      .  188 
Scoinford  Old  Manor,  the  Home  and  Garden  of  Alfred 

Austin,  Kent,  England 193 

A  Garden  near  Philadelphia,    Pennsylvania      .      .      .  196 
An   Old-fashioned   Garden    near    Philadelphia,    Penn- 
sylvania    200 

A  Garden  at  Winnetka,  Illinois 204 

A  Terrace  Garden  at  Lake  Geneva,  Wisconsin      .      .  208 

Garden  Plans 240-246 


Nature  never  did  betray 
The  heart  that  loved  her;  't  is  her  privilege 
Through  all  the  years  of  this  owr  life,  to  lead 
From  joy  to  joy :  for  she  can  so  inform 
The  mind  that  is  within  us,  so  impress 
With  quietness  and  beauty,  and  so  feed 
With  lofty  thoughts,  that  neither  evil  tongues, 
Rash  judgments,  nor  the  sneers  of  selfish  men, 
Nor  greetings  where  no  kindness  is,  nor  all 
The  dreary  intercourse  of  daily  life, 
Shall  e'er  prevail  against  us,  or  disturb 
Our  cheerful  faith,  that  all  which  we  behold 
Is  full  of  blessings. 

— WORDSWORTH. 


THE  JOY  OF  GARDENS 


ON  WINGS  OF  HOPE 

WINTER  has  fled.  What  matter  if  skies  are  gray 
and  lawns  hidden  deep  beneath  the  driven  snow, 
for  at  dawn  the  sparrows  sang  of  the  coming  of  spring  and 
let  out  the  secret  that  St.  Valentine's  Day  is  here.  The 
mist  curtains  parted  before  sunrise.  The  east,  long  veiled 
in  somber  vapors  of  smoked  amethyst,  which  only  on  rare 
winter  mornings  flashed  with  the  light  of  the  slumbering 
fires,  blazed  with  roseate  flames  as  if  to  assure  the  ice- 
bound lands  that  the  sun  still  wheeled  in  the  heavens  at 
his  appointed  time  and  all  's  right  with  the  world. 

Strike  open  the  rusty  lock  of  the  garden  gate ;  the  hour 
has  sounded  for  conquest.  The  upper  air  is  as  bright  as 
at  Eastertide,  silver  wreaths  of  fog  trail  fairy-veils  on  the 
tops  of  the  pine  trees,  and  the  sun  shines  resplendently, 
diffusing  a  gentle  warmth  through  the  atmosphere  as  he 
rises  higher  and  higher  to  the  full  splendor  of  midday. 

The  blanket  of  snow  covering  the  lily  beds  is  melting, 


2  THE   JOY    OF    GARDENS 

and  tiny  rills  are  coursing  down  the  paths.  The  doves 
have  come  out  to  sun  themselves,  cooing  sweetly  as  they 
patter  to  the  eaves  of  the  bam  roof,  and  take  short  flights 
to  try  their  wings.  We  can  almost  hear  the  seeds  stirring 
in  the  earth  where  the  full  tide  of  sunshine  falls  upon  it, 
and  the  whole  garden  seems  to  bloom  with  the  spirits  of 
flowers  of  other  years.  Then  falls  the  afternoon;  the 
vision  passes,  and  dull-cloaked  February  awaits  in  the 
twilight. 

Yet  we  have  lived  through  hours  that  have  been  glad, 
and  we  shall  not  forget  that  spring  has  given  the  sign  and 
will  burn  her  signal  fires  stolen  from  the  sun  faring  north- 
ward. Winter  is  over,  and  the  making  of  gardens  is  at 
hand.  The  miracle  of  grass  and  flowers  will  repeat  itself, 
for  the  promise  of  a  new  world  is  in  the  air,  the  mysteri- 
ous vibration  that  quickens  the  pulses  and  awakens  the 
hopes  that  fell  by  the  way  with  the  autumn  of  yesteryear. 

The  February  days  are  golden  opportunities  to  the 
practical  gardener,  who  counts  them  the  appointed  time 
for  making  ready  for  the  fetes  of  summer.  By  being 
forehanded  while  frost  is  in  the  ground  it  is  possible  to 
gain  from  two  to  four  weeks  in  the  following  season. 
Columbus  saw  the  spice-laden  islands  of  the  East  in  his 
dreams  and  steered  for  them,  and  the  gardener  makes  his 
charts  and  paints  rosy  pictures  while  gathering  his  tools 
to  launch  on  his  undertaking.  His  course  is  bent  accord- 
ing to  his  desires,  and  his  discovery  flies  their  colors. 


ON   WINGS   OF   HOPE  3 

As  day  follows  day  we  realize  every  whim  of  the 
weather  is  a  blessing  in  disguise,  once  the  mind  is  made 
up  to  think  of  gardens.  From  the  window  the  landscape 
is  hidden  by  driving  rain  and  sleet ;  the  walks  are  impass- 
able. Nature  has  ruled  that  we  stay  at  home  and  forget, 
under  the  magic  of  the  florist's  catalogue,  the  theater  in 
town. 

The  calendar  warns  that  March  is  but  a  fortnight 
away,  when  spring  is  due,  and  the  skunk  cabbage  will  be 
up  in  the  woods  on  a  sunny  bank,  and  hepaticas  hang 
their  pale  bloom  on  a  sheltered  southern  slope.  The  sleet 
may  rattle  against  the  windowpane  and  the  wind  howl 
down  the  chimney;  nevertheless  it  is  time  to  begin  gar- 
dening, and  to  do  it  now — as  the  legends  say. 

We  open  the  florist's  gay  booklet  and  mark  the  shrubs 
and  the  trees  we  had  planned  to  set  out.  A  crimson 
rambler  should  adorn  the  side  window ;  and  small  though 
the  lot  is,  it  was  decided  at  the  last  cold  snap  that  a  wind- 
break of  evergreens  would  be  worth  while  to  turn  away 
Boreas  from  the  perennials  and  the  exposed  porches  of 
the  dining  room. 

Nature  inspires  the  garden  lover  how  to  order  a  little 
paradise  on  paper,  and  as  for  wisdom,  there  are  abroad 
wisacres  aplenty  only  too  glad  to  recite  their  experi- 
ences. We  can  say  to  ourselves  in  perfect  faith  that 
"Nature  never  did  betray  the  heart  that  loved  her,"  and 
go  our  ways  in  adventures  in  gardening.  If  one  seed  is 


4  THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

discouraged  and  refuses  to  send  forth  its  plant,  there  are 
many  more  just  waiting  the  chance  to  get  a  foothold  and 
to  make  greenery  and  color  above  the  earth  we  have 
scratched.  With  garden  books  all  around,  and  so  much 
other  advice,  we  should  be  able  to  put  what  we  ought  to 
have  with  what  we  really  want,  in  good  taste. 

Then  comes  another  night  of  blustery  weather  to  keep 
every  one  at  home  and  the  neighbors  fast  behind  their 
own  doors,  and  we  declare  in  exultation  that  fortune  has 
sent  it  to  be  the  hour  of  planning.  Accordingly  we  clear 
away  the  books  of  fiction  and  the  tempting  magazines 
from  the  table,  and  prepare  for  a  serious  campaign  in 
formal  lists.  It  looks  to  be  dull  work;  but  if  you  would 
not  be  sorry  later  on,  drive  out  the  lurking  distrust  of 
summer  success  and  play  that  all  will  go  as  gayly  as  a 
fairy  tale,  for  beauty  still  abides  among  old-fashioned 
posies. 

Flowers  are  fed  by  faith,  like  all  the  homely  virtues, 
and  faith  is  the  first  essential  in  getting  bloom.  It  is 
united  to  some  hard  work,  it  is  true ;  but  who  ever  minded 
the  drudgery  of  a  mountain  climb  after  he  had  gained 
the  heights? 

Long  ago  the  garden  plan  had  its  serpentine  paths  or 
was  laid  off  in  parallelograms,  but  to-day  the  waste 
ground  given  to  paths  is  used  for  planting,  and  turf  is 
trained  over  the  lawns  and  close  to  the  beds.  The  gravel 
path  appears  only  as  the  practical  marching  ground  to 


ON   WINGS   OF   HOPE  5 

the  f  nt  door  and  for  the  comfort  of  milkman  and 
grocery  boy  who  approach  the  kitchen.  '  It  is  not  neces- 
sary to  use  compass  or  rule  and  waste  ground  in  walking 
measures  among  the  flower  beds.  The  clover  turf  is 
pleasanter  to  the  foot  in  summer,  and  is  a  refreshing 
backgrc  d  for  clumps  of  hardy  phlox,  peonies,  giant 
larkspui  and  other  perennials  which,  once  invited  in, 
remain  always. 

For  a  pastime  let  us  draw  the  first  plan  on  sketch  paper 
and  wash  in  the  colors  of  the  scheme  for  the  beds. 
Blooming  posies  are  amicable  folk,  and  I  never  knew 
their  colors  to  fight — figuratively  speaking — except  in 
California,  where  purple  bougainvilleas  keep  up  a  fierce 
warfare  with  scarlet  geraniums,  causing  chills  to  creep 
down  the  spines  of  nervous  artists. 

It  is  safe  to  mix  the  homely  flowers,  always  using 
many  white  blossoms,  while  much  pleasure  is  to  be  gained 
in  massing  plants  of  a  single  variety  and  color;  as  many 
petunias  with  a  border  of  sweet  alyssum,  or  scarlet  gera- 
niums with  white  feverfew  to  make  a  contrast;  and  beds 
of  pansies,  stocks,  begonias,  or  ageratum  look  well  with 
dwarf  geraniums  of  the  silver-leaf  variety  or  candytuft 
or  dusty  miller. 

The  choice  being  made,  write  the  names  of  the  flowers 
in  the  places  they  are  to  occupy  in  the  beds  and,  if  your 
imagination  is  not  vivid,  wash  in  the  colors  with  paint. 
In  thinking  of  annuals  one  should  not  overlook  the 


6  THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

faithful  perennials  and  spring  bulbs — though  the  latter 
were,  of  course,  set  in  the  autumn — and  daffodils  and  iris 
are  at  home  in  their  own  corners.  Bleeding  hearts  and 
peonies  are  the  earliest  joy-bringers,  and,  however  little 
your  plot,  keep  a  place  for  them. 

After  all,  a  rainy  February  will  have  its  brighter  side 
if  the  orders  for  seeds  and  shrubs  have  been  mailed  and 
the  garden  plans  made  in  the  evenings.  An  inclement 
half-holiday  gives  time  to  search  for  tools  in  the  cellar 
and  to  hunt  for  dahlia  roots,  cannas,  and  gladioli  put 
away  in  November;  and  the  first  sunny  day  will  send  us 
looking  after  the  hotbed — but  that  is  another  story. 

By  and  by  the  hands  of  the  clock  hint  that  the  lamp 
will  soon  burn  low.  If  we  are  to  have  our  nightly  com- 
pany of  an  old  book  it  is  high  time  to  take  one  from  the 
shelves.  What  better  than  the  master  of  the  Utopian 
Garden — Francis  Bacon  ? 

"And  because  the  breath  of  flowers  is  far  sweeter  in 
the  air  (where  it  comes  and  goes,  like  the  warbling  of 
music)  than  in  the  land,  therefore  nothing  is  more  fit  for 
that  delight  than  to  know  what  be  the  flowers  and  plants 
that  do  best  perfume  the  air.  Roses,  damask  and  red,  are 
fast  flowers  of  their  smells,  so  that  you  may  walk  by  a 
whole  row  of  them  and  find  nothing  of  their  sweetness; 
yea,  though  it  be  in  a  morning's  dew.  Bays,  likewise, 
yield  no  smell  as  they  grow,  rosemary  little,  nor  sweet 
marjoram.  That  which  above  all  others  yields  the 


ON   WINGS   OF   HOPE  7 

sweetest  smell  in  the  air  is  the  violet,  especially  the  white 
double  violet  which  comes  twice  a  year,  about  the  middle 
of  April  and  about  Bartholomewtide. 

"Next  to  that  is  the  musk  rose;  then  the  strawberry 
leaves  dying,  with  a  most  excellent  cordial  smell;  then 
the  flower  of  the  vines — it  is  a  little  like  the  dust  of  a 
grass  which  grows  upon  the  cluster  in  the  first  coming 
forth;  then  sweetbriar;  then  wallflowers,  which  are  very 
delightful  to  be  set  upon  a  parlor  or  lower  chamber 
window ;  then  pinks  and  gillyflowers,  especially  the  mat- 
ted pink  and  clove  gillyflower;  then  the  flowers  of  the 
lime  tree;  then  the  honeysuckle — so  they  be  somewhat 
afar  off.  Of  bean  flowers  I  speak  not,  because  they  are 
field  flowers.  But  those  which  perfume  the  air  most  de- 
lightfully, not  passed  by  as  the  rest,  but  being  trodden 
upon  and  crushed,  are  three;  that  is,  burnet,  wild  thyme, 
and  water  mints;  therefore  you  are  to  set  whole  alleys  of 
them  to  have  pleasure  when  you  walk  or  tread." 

As  he  considers  still  further  man's  making  of  gardens, 
to  which  God  Almighty  first  pointed  the  way  in  Eden,  he 
looks  adown  the  year  in  the  long  procession  of  months 
and  writes,  "I  doe  hold  it,  in  the  Royall  Ordering  of 
Gardens,  that  there  ought  to  be  gardens  for  all  months 
of  the  year;  in  which  severally  things  of  beauty  may  be 
there  in  season."  What  sensible  advice  this  is — posies 
to  greet  the  swallow,  others  for  grasshopper  and  harvest 
time,  others  to  abide  with  the  cricket. 


8  THE    JOY    OF   GARDENS 

A  torrent  of  spring  rain  is  dashing  upon  the  window- 
panes,  and  the  icicles  tinkle  like  silver  bells  as  they  fall 
from  the  balcony  above  and  are  shattered  on  the  stone 
sill.  How  they  glittered,  outdoing  crystal  balls  in  sun- 
shine this  morning,  reflecting  in  their  shining  depths  the 
flowers  soon  to  parade  in  the  garden  below!  Here  is 
magic  that  we  can  make  without  wand  or  incantation; 
we  have  dreamed  the  color  scheme,  invited  many  to  the 
tableau,  and  if  to-morrow's  day  is  fair  the  earthen  beds 
shall  be  turned  with  a  spade. 

Though  inefficient  and  feeble  in  many  things,  poor 
blind  mortals  that  we  are,  here  is  a  certainty,  and  we  can 
actually  steal  a  march  on  nature  and  defy  the  weather 
by  going  about  our  gardening  betimes.  So  often  our  best- 
laid  plans  have  fallen  to  rack  and  ruin  that  it  is  no 
wonder  we  cast  a  thought  in  the  direction  of  adverse 
demons. 

Does  the  wind  howling  through  the  trees,  shaking  the 
doors  with  ghostly  hands — does  the  wind  know  that  we 
have  tried  to  get  ahead  of  nature  and  have  packed  the  oak 
leaves  thickly  above  the  snowdrops  and  first  hyacinths? 
Does  the  Nemesis  of  a  late  spring  spy  the  plantlets  that 
were  struggling  to  light  in  the  hotbeds  a  week  ago,  just 
waiting  for  the  melting  of  the  last  snow*? 

The  answer  is  here  in  the  flower  basket  of  leaf  mold 
lifted  from  the  sunny  slope  of  the  ravine.  The  brown 
matted  covering  is  broken,  and  in  the  warmth  and  the 


ON   WINGS    OF   HOPE  9 

sunshine  that  flooded  the  south  window  life  began  stir- 
ring in  the  seedlings  blanketed  under  the  oak  leaves.  A 
white,  furry  crosier  is  uplifted  by  the  hepatica,  a  fern 
holds  out  a  coil  of  green,  and  an  acorn  has  turned  over 
on  its  side  to  reach  toward  the  light  the  tender  pink 
sprout  of  a  young  tree.  The  joy  of  gardens  is  in  the  air, 
and  when  clouds  have  blown  away  and  the  sun  is  shining 
again,  we  shall  bid  defiance  to  the  vagaries  of  willful 
spring  and  go  planting  on  our  own  account. 


A  PRELUDE  OF  HEAVEN'S  HARMONY 

AT  midnight  March  came  in  like  a  lion  bent  on  ven- 
geance, announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky 
and  a  roar  in  the  tree  tops.    The  first  peep  of  day  showed 
whirling  rings  of  mist  taking  the  shapes  of  ghostly  spirits 
which  seemed  to  moan : 

"The  wind  blows  out  of  the  gates  of  day, 
The  wind  blows  over  the  lonely  of  heart, 
And  the  lonely  of  heart  is  withered  away — " 

The  tones  died  in  the  distance  as  the  dense  fog  swept  on 
before  the  blast  as  fierce  and  chill  as  if  it  had  been  the 
breath  of  the  Northland,  from  the  far-away  Hebrides 
and  the  hills  where  the  dream-maiden  Fiona  MacLeod 
wove  her  verses. 

When  it  was  light  the  gardener  looked  out  on  the 
frowning  clouds  and  turned  a  cold  shoulder  to  weather 
simulating  pranks  of  the  artistic  temperament.  Was  this 
spring  masquerading  for  a  day  in  blustering  March?  So 
it  is  by  the  calendar,  and  experiences  of  old  shall  not 
deceive  us.  Could  we  paint  the  weather  god  of  this 
season,  what  else  should  he  be  but  a  combination  of  Jove 
10 


HEAVEN'S   HARMONY  11 

the  sportive,  of  Saturn  the  threatening,  together  touched 
with  the  mischief  of  volatile  Mercury ! 

When  March  gets  into  the  human  circle  and  stirs  up 
the  imagination  and  the  emotions,  the  association  is  dis- 
turbing. The  cheerful  window  garden  of  fragrant  prim- 
roses fails  to  awaken  gentle  reflections;  neither  Francis 
Bacon  nor  Gilbert  White  nor  John  Parkinson  rises  to 
the  wild  spirits  of  March.  While  "wind  and  rain  and 
changing  skies"  play  overhead  the  Gaelic  muse  and 
Chopin's  preludes  make  music  within  doors,  where  the 
fire  burns  brightly  on  the  hearth. 

Such  is  March — variable  as  the  winds  that  blow,  as 
the  gardener  knows  who  learns  to  be  weatherwise. 
Weather  knowledge  is  a  by-product  of  gardening  gleaned 
on  occasions  as  he  watches  for  the  south  wind  and,  dread- 
ing the  north,  welcomes  the  east,  and  puts  by  his  hose  at 
the  sign  of  a  rain-laden  cloud.  No  one  scans  the  skies 
more  anxiously  than  the  gardener  in  a  dry  spell ;  no  one 
is  quicker  to  spy  the  sulphurous  yellow  vapor  laden  with 
hail,  nor  is  there  a  professional  weather  man  more  accu- 
rate in  counting  the  sunny  days. 

But,  for  all  this,  who  knows  March*?  Some  writer  on 
birds  and  flowers  accepts  the  situation  with  resignation 
and  would  divide  the  year  into  four  seasons — and  March. 
This  is  as  it  should  be.  Let  March  roar  like  the  lion  and 
be  gentle  as  the  lamb,  sleet  the  garden  and  then  thaw  it, 
invite  the  covers  off  the  beds  and  send  the  thermometer 


12          THE   JOY    OF    GARDENS 

to  the  depths,  and  yet,  while  doing  its  freakish  worst,  we 
would  count  the  year  a  desert  without  it. 

Weather  wisdom,  like  Dogberry's  scholarship,  comes 
by  nature.  Its  first  intuitions  may  be  instilled  in  the 
child  who  finds  the  sky  a  field  for  his  observations  as  ex- 
citing as  the  back  yard  or  the  neighbor's  lot  which  makes 
up  his  play  world.  He  looks  from  his  little  garden  to  the 
sky,  and  somewhere  in  his  wondering  mind  grows  a  rever- 
ence for  the  omnipotent  power  hidden  behind  the  blue 
firmament. 

If  puffed  with  conceit  that  man  is  the  master  of  his 
fate,  uncover  the  hotbeds  on  a  sunny  March  day  when 
the  changed  skies  are  soft  and  warm,  and  note  what 
happens  before  dusk.  March  is  on  the  lookout  for  human 
planters,  and  he  who  "bides  a  wee"  is  safe.  He  is 
cautious  about  lifting  the  frames  and  raking  off  the  bulb 
beds,  or  taking  shelter  from  the  perennials;  and,  when 
the  season  permits,  employs  the  waiting  hour  making  the 
rounds  of  the  lawn  and  grounds  with  a  notebook,  to  think 
of  the  things  that  ought  to  be  done  and  the  things  he 
would  like  to  do,  and  to  write  them  down. 

Where  the  lawn  sweeps  to  the  road,  an  expanse  of 
green  may  be  depended  upon  to  frame  an  aristocratic  set- 
ting to  the  house.  It  is  no  light  matter  to  keep  a  lawn  in 
order,  to  banish  the  weeds  and  coarse  grass,  shut  off  the 
explorations  of  moles,  and  keep  the  sod  shaven  and  even. 
However  charming  grass  may  be,  the  presence  of  flowers 


HEAVEN'S   HARMONY  13 

adds  a  personal  touch  to  the  surroundings.  Any  one 
among  us  can  recall  places  set  in  immaculately  kept 
lawns,  with  perchance  a  single  foliage  bed  laid  with 
mathematical  precision.  Day  after  day  for  years  we  may 
pass  the  gate  without  any  conception  of  who  dwells 
within  or  what  manner  of  man  he  is. 

Drawing  rooms  of  this  type  are  familiar,  and  whole 
houses  whose  interiors  keep  the  secrets  of  the  tastes  of 
their  masters  and  mistresses.  Far  more  lovable  are  the 
pretty,  disorderly  rooms  with  books  and  papers,  pictures 
hung  here  and  there,  bric-a-brac  treasured  from  child- 
hood, reflecting  moods  and  every  holiday  of  the  year. 
True,  the  art  decorator  frowns  on  this.  "Away  with  it 
all !"  he  cries.  "Look  to  simplicity !"  And  should  you 
heed  him  and  visit  that  room  devoid  of  its  nonsense,  you 
would  discover  to  your  sorrow  that  its  soul  had  fled. 

Nowhere  could  be  found  the  suggestive  lures  to  book 
and  to  picture  worlds;  gone  the  memory  of  happy  occa- 
sions amid  the  distraction  of  matching  colors  and  simple 
forgetfulness — a  day  without  friends,  a  future  that 
stretches  like  a  desert  to  the  far  horizon.  Yes,  you  are 
saved  dusting;  but  imagine  being  imprisoned  in  this 
coldly  correct  and  conventional  chamber,  and  compare  it 
with  what  might  have  been  had  you  but  the  foolish  orna- 
ments of  childhood,  the  old  dictionary,  the  prints,  and 
the  stack  of  torn  music  heaped  on  a  convenient  chair,  and 
the  bookcases  about.  Who  lives  in  this  tastes  of  the 


14         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

whirl  of  life  and  its  myriad  colors — and  loves  even 
March  in  his  garden. 

There  lies  a  happy  medium  between  soulless  conven- 
tions and  riotous  disorder.  Crocuses  that  smile  from  the 
first  grass  blades  on  the  lawn,  the  wee,  modest,  crimson- 
tipped  daisies  that  wash  their  faces  in  morning  dews  all 
summer  long,  give  character  to  the  proper  expanse  before 
the  door.  Every  passing  neighbor  gets  a  message  of 
cheer,  and,  is  his  horizon  dark,  you  have  given  him  a 
smile.  If  no  altruistic  sentiment  of  this  order  stirs  you, 
imagine  how  artistic  purple  and  yellow  crocuses  look  in 
April,  daisies  in  June,  and  scarlet  salvia  in  autumn  in  a 
sea  of  green. 

Now  the  storm  clouds  have  vanished,  and  March, 
lamblike,  lends  a  charm  to  all  pastoral  scenes.  The  wind 
blows  from  the  south,  the  weather  vane  tilts  uncertainly, 
and  the  windows  are  thrown  open  to  admit  the  spring; 
the  fancy  presents  the  most  hopeful  undertakings  that  we 
have  thought  of  in  many  a  day.  A  troop  of  nesting  spar- 
rows is  scouring  the  gardens  for  straws  and  foraging  for 
seeds  at  the  very  spot  where  the  spade  will  turn  over  the 
earth  when  the  pools  have  dried  away. 

At  this  stage  of  action  the  summer  border  is  of  that 
unsubstantial  fabric  that  dreams  are  made  of.  Do  not 
scoff  at  it,  unbeliever  who  never  scratched  the  earth  or 
tasted  the  joys  of  creation  by  planting  a  seed.  Consider 
but  a  little,  and  discover  that  more  than  half  the  joys  of 


HEAVEN'S   HARMONY  15 

life  are  visions  created  by  our  longing  selves  in  anticipa- 
tion of  something  beautiful  which  we  would  have  for  our 
own. 

Winged  by  hopes,  we  step  lightly  over  the  quagmires 
of  everyday  to  live  in  inspiring  atmospheres  and  gather 
posies  in  fairy  gardens.  To  be  able  to  do  this  counts  one 
among  those  blessed  with  a  safe  haven  at  hand  when 
February  rains  flood  the  air,  the  melting  snowdrifts  have 
lost  their  purity,  and  the  garden  lies  drowned,  with  the 
trees  standing  dully  in  a  forbidding  atmosphere. 

The  immortal  artist  knows  that  we  need  the  grays  to 
throw  the  skies  into  brighter  contrast ;  and  if  we  bid  dull 
care  be  gone  and  put  spur  to  the  imagination,  lo!  the 
garden  blooms  with  the  firstlings  of  Easter,  and  no  Hindu 
magician  has  been  at  hand  to  wave  his  wand  to  make 
it  so. 

It  has  been  whispered  that  many  florists'  catalogues 
and  railway  time-tables  go  to  those  who  never  plant  and 
to  those  who  never  travel.  The  little  woman  in  her  one 
room,  when  work  is  done,  yields  to  the  luxury  of  plan- 
ning a  garden  which  perchance  some  turn  in  the  wheel 
of  fortune  may  give  her  in  the  unread  future.  No  down- 
town playhouse  could  transport  her  as  does  the  thin- 
leafed  picture  book  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye.  And 
when  she  has  settled  her  perennials  and  sweet  herbs  she 
puts  the  pamphlet  tenderly  away  for  another  dream  hour. 

One  who  has  tested  the  magic  of  it  does  not  need  our 


16         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

pity,  even  if  the  garden  is  confined  to  a  single  pot  on  the 
window  sill,  or  is  no  real  garden  at  all.  Few  magazines 
equal  the  florists'  catalogues  for  variety  of  lore ;  and  what 
a  wealth  of  gardens,  whole  country  estates,  one  can  plan 
with  a  single  pamphlet !  A  child  who  has  not  learned  to 
seek  out  his  catalogue,  with  its  gay  pictures  of  flowers, 
has  missed  something  in  life,  for  it  is  a  clew  to  a  liberal 
education.  Had  he  a  garden  of  his  own  he  could  not 
learn  the  names  and  habits  of  so  many  flowers,  nor 
become  so  familiar  with  them. 

To-day  we  are  interested  in  vines,  and  out  come  pencil 
and  paper,  and  we  decide  where  the  trumpet  creeper 
would  do  best,  where  a  purple  clematis  Jackmanii,  where 
the  morning-glories  should  unfurl  to  the  morning,  and 
where  we  dare  experiment  with  these  new  things  that  we 
have  never  met.  By  investing  a  few  dollars  the  kitchen 
door  may  become  a  bower,  the  old  tree  draped  in  beauty, 
the  screen  fence  before  the  ash  heap  hidden  behind  a  cur- 
tain of  bloom.  When  enthusiasm  burns  high,  the  order 
is  written  out  that  very  night,  and  may  send  us  out  in  the 
rain  to  a  letter  box,  and  to  bed  we  go  with  visions  of 
flowering  vines  rambling  about  eaves  and  making  the  old 
house  the  prettiest  in  the  neighborhood. 

Many  men  and  women  are  gifted  with  a  passion  for 
planting  and  planning  artistic  homes.  Their  whole 
energy  is  spent  in  making,  and  when  the  task  is  accom- 
plished they  are  willing  to  move  to  another  home  in  its 


HEAVEN'S    HARMONY  17 

beginnings  to  go  over  the  task  again.  They  are  born 
promoters  of  gardening  on  whom  the  fact  of  possession 
bears  heavily,  as  their  temperament  bids  them  be  up  and 
doing.  The  stuff  of  the  pioneer  is  in  their  fancy,  blazing 
trails  and  conquering  wildernesses,  and  living  by  the 
temptations  of  the  florists'  catalogues. 

We  whose  hearts  cling  to  places  cannot  understand 
their  building  and  leaving,  and  would  pity  them.  But 
they  do  not  need  our  pity  in  the  least,  as  theirs  has  been 
the  delight  of  creating,  and  in  going  to  pastures  new  they 
will  taste  it  again.  The  indoor  garden  is  a  pleasure  for 
the  year  around,  which  dwellers  of  old  houses  have  culti- 
vated with  great  success.  The  latter-day  architect  seems 
to  have  conspired  against  plants  and  pictures.  It  argues 
ill  for  his  breadth  of  view,  for  however  artistic  in  an 
architectural  way  a  house  may  be,  it  will  never  be  a  home 
unless  it  is  prepared  to  foster  human  graces. 

It  must  be  more  than  a  noncommittal  work  of  art, 
more  than  a  shell  devoid  of  worry  and  distractions,  more 
than  a  scheme  of  lines  and  a  color  harmony.  It  should 
have  invitations  to  draw  out  gentleness  and  loveliness, 
and  to  lead  the  mind  to  pleasant  places.  Thus  wall 
spaces  for  pictures  and  convenient  nooks  for  flowers 
should  be  provided,  so  as  freely  to  exercise  their  mission 
of  beauty. 

The  flower  for  the  window,  like  the  child  in  the  house, 
is  a  wellspring  of  joy.  In  March  it  is  the  preacher  of 


i8         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

springtide.  Every  week  of  the  winter  should  have  its 
blooming  visitants  in  the  garden  under  glass,  and  when 
spring  comes  nature  gives  the  best  of  all  to  welcome  the 
returning  sun,  whether  indoors  or  out  of  doors.  As  early 
as  Ash  Wednesday — mid-February  or  the  fortnight  there- 
abouts— the  cinerarias  unfold  their  daisy-shaped  flowers 
of  rich  purples,  reds,  blues,  and  whites  about  a  tropical 
leafage. 

What  a  charming  companion  a  single  pot  of  these  may 
be  in  a  sunny  window !  And  if  one  has  coaxed  a  Chinese 
primrose  with  delicate  frilled  pink  bloom,  and  encouraged 
a  pot  of  broom  to  shake  its  yellow  honey  bells  and  a 
bunch  of  heather  to  make  gay,  the  indoors  is  as  fragrant 
as  the  out  of  doors  will  be  a  month  later.  The  calceolaria 
is  another  curious  flower  coming  at  this  time,  and  because 
of  its  strangeness  and  orchid  reminders  it  is  most  appro- 
priate in  a  pot,  and  better  at  home  on  a  window  sill  than 
if  it  were  out  of  doors  by  and  by  among  the  familiar 
denizens  of  the  borders. 

Contentment  in  life,  after  all,  is  built  upon  our  indus- 
try in  learning  to  see  things  and  to  store  the  fancy  with 
riches  for  times  and  seasons.  The  wealth  gained  from 
cloud-gazing,  weather  lore,  wild  flowers,  the  migrating 
birds — and,  not  least,  the  treasures  of  florists'  windows 
and  catalogues — cannot  be  stolen  from  us. 

Spring  is  knocking  at  the  door.  The  wind  and  sleet 
are  false  prophets.  All  nature  tells  of  the  flight  of 


HEAVEN'S   HARMONY  19 

winter;  even  that  book  for  stormy  evenings — Paracelsus 
— fell  open  at  the  touch,  and  we  read : 

"Then  all  is  still :    earth  is  a  wintry  clod ; 
But  spring  wind,  like  a  dancing  psaltress,  passes 
Over  its  breast  to  waken  it ;  rare  verdure 
Buds  tenderly  on  rough  banks,  between 
The  withered  tree  roots  and  the  crack  of  frost, 
Like  a  smile  striving  with  a  wrinkled  face ; 

Savage  creatures  seek 

Their  loves  in  wood  and  plain — and  God  renews 
His  ancient  rapture." 

These  lines  alone  should  give  the  poet  immortality. 


THE  DELIGHTS  OF  FAITH 

WOMAN  first  saw  the  light  of  day  in  a  garden,  and 
could  she  cherish  the  faith  that  "in  paradise  a  gar- 
den lies"  what  comfort  could  be  hers!  The  suburban 
bride,  settled  in  her  new  home,  goes  to  town  at  the  first 
sign  that  spring  is  on  the  way,  bent  upon  investing  in  gar- 
den tools.  The  last  snowbank  has  not  retreated  before  the 
March  sunshine,  and  you  may  see  her  going  forth  one  of 
these  fair  mornings  equipped  with  garden  gloves,  a  hoe, 
and  a  rake. 

The  turf  is  still  soggy,  and  the  piles  of  leaves  heaped 
in  the  corners  near  the  porch  and  at  the  roots  of  trees  are 
water-soaked  masses.  It  is  too  early  to  dig,  and  the  rake 
has  uncovered  no  ambitious  green  sprouts.  Even  lilac 
buds  are  backward  and,  while  swollen,  show  the  wisdom 
of  waiting  a  little  longer.  Each  hour  the  sky  changes, 
and  the  weather  vane  tilts  uncertainly. 

So  the  bride  leans  on  her  rake,  enjoying  the  sunlight 
that  warms  the  brisk  little  breeze  blowing  from  the  south, 
and  looks  abroad  up  and  down  the  road  to  find  what  the 
rest  of  the  world  is  about.  A  moment  before  she  had 
been  lost  in  a  day-dream  of  a  hedge  of  goldenglow,  of 
20 


THE    DELIGHTS    OF   FAITH      21 

Japanese  morning-glories  climbing  the  porch,  of  young 
crimson  ramblers,  and  of  an  old-fashioned  garden  bed 
with  a  big  clump  of  the  new  yellow  snapdragons  attended 
by  an  orchestra  of  bumblebees  drilling  the  nectarines  for 
feasts  of  honey. 

Far  down  the  road  a  cock  crows  lustily.  His  triumph- 
ant note  is  that  of  a  true  trumpeter  of  spring  hailing  good 
tidings.  Led  by  his  call,  the  woman  looks  in  the  distance. 
What  is  it  that  hides  the  grove  since  last  she  looked  that 
way,  and  what  the  caricature  of  chanticleer;  what  ani- 
mals, strange  and  grotesque,  parade  the  painted  barri- 
cade ?  The  woman  sighs ;  she  might  have  known  that  the 
billboard  fiend  had  made  his  plans  and  stolen  a  march  on 
suburban  beauty. 

Little  tragedies  such  as  these  make  a  plea  for  walled 
gardens — from  which  the  world  may  be  shut  out.  As 
much  as  we  Americans  like  open  lawns  upon  which  the 
houses  stand  looking  toward  neighbors  with  hospitable 
intent,  the  only  way  to  gain  privacy  and  the  restful  seclu- 
sion of  a  garden  out  of  sight  of  suggestions  of  billboards 
and  posters  that  tear  the  mind  here  and  there  with  a 
thousand  inconsequential  distractions,  is  to  erect  screens 
for  vines,  plant  shrubs,  or  to  make  a  concerted  attack  on 
the  billboards  for  spoiling  rural  beauty. 

A  corner  in  the  library  devoted  to  books  of  magic  may 
be  counted  among  the  things  needful  to  get  in  tune  with 
gardens.  Sketching  plans  on  paper,  marking  off  beds  with 


22         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

pegs  and  string,  deciding  on  shrubbery  clumps,  ordering 
seeds,  digging,  planting,  cultivating,  and  gathering  flow- 
ers— all  these  are  only  a  small  part  of  gardening  when 
you  have  thoroughly  entered  into  the  spirit  of  it. 

On  gray  days  discouragement  haunts  the  paths,  upon 
which  one  turns  his  back  and  hunts  the  shelf  with  the 
books  of  magic.  Here  is  one  that  never  failed.  It  is 
Gilbert  White's  Natural  History  of  Selborne.  If  it  is  a 
stranger,  don't  seek  introduction  through  the  edition  de 
luxe  in  your  library,  but  buy  a  little  book,  and  it  will  be 
handy  to  slip  in  your  pocket;  and  if  by  chance  it  is  left 
on  a  garden  seat,  and  the  dews  drench  it,  you  will  not  sor- 
row for  money  lost,  but  will  take  it  up  tenderly,  dry  it, 
and  read  again. 

From  Gilbert  White  one  learns  contentment  and  the 
riches  of  life  in  nature.  What  a  rare  man  he  would 
have  been  in  the  midst  of  a  family  of  children !  But  had 
it  been  so  the  world  would  have  lost  a  magic  book.  At 
the  glimpse  of  a  page  billboards,  soggy  earth,  cutworms, 
or  whatever  has  bothered  the  mind,  take  flight,  and  our 
little  lot  is  a  small  world  with  vast  possibilities. 

The  poorest  neighbor  can  plant  crown  imperials  for  the 
pleasure  of  watching  for  the  little  bird  that  runs  up  the 
stems  to  poke  its  head  into  the  bells  of  the  flowers  to  sip 
the  sweets  standing  in  the  nectarium  of  each  petal.  He 
may  set  snapdragons  for  bumblebees,  and  seek  honeyed 
blossoms  loved  by  insects  that  invite  the  redstart  to  make 


THE   DELIGHTS   OF   FAITH      23 

its  nest  on  your  premises.  Through  the  eyes  of  Gilbert 
White  the  keeper  ol  trie  tiniest  inclosure  has  his  vision  en- 
larged beyond  the  lew  beds  and  struggling  bloom  that  he 
calls  his  own.  The  insect  kingdom,  the  bird  world,  the 
passing  clouds,  are  all  part  of  the  flower  garden,  with  the 
sun  that  daily  stays  "leaning  on  his  staff,  and  looking 
back  over  the  world  as  a  man  might  do  at  the  last  of  his 
journey." 

A  few  days  of  stiff  winds  dry  off  flooded  places  with 
marvelous  rapidity.  One  may  venture  to  predict  that, 
following  a  fierce  February  and  stormy  early  March,  mild 
weather  will  come  apace.  The  head  of  the  house,  who 
drives  a  nail  straight,  has  probably  finished  making  a 
cold  frame ;  namely,  a  box  with  a  window-frame  top  and 
no  bottom.  The  cold  frame  is  set  over  a  bed  on  the  south 
side,  where  the  sun  strikes  it  all  day. 

The  bulbs  that  have  been  kept  away  for  Easter  will 
pick  up  under  the  glass.  Bits  of  old  matting  and  carpet 
furnish  a  protection  from  the  chill  of  stormy  nights ;  and 
if  the  covers  have  been  propped  up  during  the  day  to  let 
in  the  fresh  air  and  sunshine,  the  props  should  be  taken 
out  before  the  penetrating  chill  of  twilight  comes  and  the 
last  sunshine  has  stolen  away  from  the  tree  tops.  While 
earth  sleeps  outside,  violets  and  narcissi  will  bloom  under 
the  shelter. 

Awaking  in  the  morning  at  the  warble  of  early  rising 
birds,  and  hearing  a  distant  bell  toll  six,  while  the 


24         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

crimson  blush  of  dawn  was  reflected  on  the  chamber  wall, 
there  came  to  mind  a  book  on  tfhe  Delights  of  Faith. 
It  was  written  by  a  Cambridge  fellow  whose  life  interests 
were  bounded  by  a  tiny  room  and  a  single  window  look- 
ing out  upon  an  old  garden  on  the  banks  of  the  peaceful 
Cam.  The  scholar,  enamored  of  bookish  seclusion  in  his 
youth,  had  given  all  his  years  to  The  Delights  of  Faith 
and  the  care  of  his  garden,  and  then  had  gone  to  rest  con- 
tent that  he  had  finished  his  book. 

Those  who  came  later  and  rested  on  the  moss-grown 
bench  under  the  yew  tree  he  had  planted,  listening  to  the 
hum  of  bees  from  his  hives  near  the  clump  of  splendid 
foxglove,  and  scenting  the  pungent  odor  from  the  box 
hedge  that  he  had  trimmed,  felt  the  garden  of  beauty 
renewing  its  promises  with  returning  springs  was  his  true 
legacy  to  posterity  and  the  eloquent  volume  on  the  de- 
lights of  faith. 

The  time-stained  pages  were  turned  one  by  one  to 
catch  a  vital  spark  of  an  ardent  soul,  and  the  mellow  sun- 
shine of  the  English  afternoon  grew  golden  in  the  full 
tide  of  spring's  glory.  The  linnets  sang  in  the  fragrant 
bower  of  laburnum,  and  heaven  seemed  surely  to  have 
come  down  to  earth.  It  needed  no  argument  of  priest  or 
creed  to  write  the  delights  of  faith. 

Biding  our  time  in  wayward  March  in  this  western 
world,  which  has  yet  to  make  its  gardens  for  posterity,  the 
almanacs  and  fashion-mongers  tell  us  that  spring  is  here. 


THE   DELIGHTS   OF   FAITH      25 

Every  noon  the  sunshine  marks  a  line  farther  north  on  the 
leaf-covered  hepaticas  and  the  brown  bulb  beds,  showing 
a  daring  spear  or  two  of  green.  In  the  confined  garden 
spaces  our  careless  eyes  overlook  the  daily  progress  of 
the  northward  coming  of  sunshine.  If  one* would  see  it  in 
its  mystery  and  beauty,  let  him  take  a  flight  from  the 
Gulf  to  the  Lakes  and  behold  how  spring  is  marked  on  the 
countryside  as  plainly  as  if  the  Almighty  Artist  dipped 
his  brush  in  green  every  morning  and  spread  it  across  the 
face  of  nature,  scattering  flowers  in  its  trail,  each  day  a 
little  nearer  to  the  arctic  snows. 

It  does  seem  rather  far-fetched  to  imagine  that  the  tree 
tops  feel  the  sunshine  before  our  duller  senses  are  awake, 
because  they  are  that  much  nearer  heaven.  Yet  this  must 
be  true,  else  why  are  the  topmost  twigs  on  the  elm,  maple, 
poplar,  ash,  willow,  and  cottonwood  decorated  with 
swelling  buds'? 

Look  and  look  again  at  them,  for  it  will  not  be  long 
before  their  graceful  shapes  will  be  hidden  with  draperies 
of  foliage. 

The  drooping  disposition  of  the  elm  and  the  elegance 
of  the  birch  and  maple  are  never  more  evident  than  when 
outlined  against  the  twilight  of  a  March  sky.  It  has 
taken  long  to  become  acquainted  with  the  bare  catalpa  and 
linden,  and  if  you  have  not  known  the  silver-leaf  poplar, 
hunt  out  a  few  in  the  neighborhood.  Hereafter  it  will  be 
listed  among  the  wayward  friends  of  testy  temper,  twisted 


26         THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

by  every  influence,  gnarled  and  knotted  and  picturesque 
when  leafless  or  in  fine  fettle,  and,  though  not  claiming 
honors  of  grace,  an  interesting  friend. 

This  is  digressing  from  our  original  flower  hunt  in  the 
tree  tops.  The  true  lover  of  trees  peers  about  for  them 
whenever  he  takes  his  walks  abroad,  knowing  that  their 
time  is  short.  Of  course  the  short-sighted  must  take  a 
field  glass,  but  bird  hunting  or  flower  hunting  under  these 
conditions  does  not  bring  the  happy  intimacy  that  comes 
from  bird  society  on  your  own  lawn,  or  studying  tree 
flowers  overhanging  the  porch. 

Trees  play  a  part  in  the  joy  of  gardens;  and,  were 
mine  the  privilege  to  plant  this  spring,  I  should  choose  for 
flowers,  as  well  as  for  shade,  a  Judas  tree,  a  locust,  a 
flowering  crab,  catalpas,  and  lindens — if  I  had  space  for 
all.  The  birds  should  have  their  share  of  fragrant  bou- 
quets from  budding  time  until  June  slips  into  summer, 
when  the  air  hums  with  bees.  Nor  should  a  March  pass 
forgetting  the  blossoming  elms,  maples,  willows,  and 
their  companions. 

Gather  a  bunch  of  tree  twigs  anywhere,  and  wait  for 
surprises  in  the  vase  of  water  in  the  sunny  window  where 
you  have  set  them. 

It  is  true  it  is  a  crime  to  injure  a  tree,  but  in  this  single 
instance  the  lesson  is  worth  the  sacrifice,  and  all  will  be 
forgiven  if  you  have  learned  to  know  the  powdered  gold 
that  is  shed  from  the  ash,  the  tassels  of  the  willow,  the 


THE   DELIGHTS   OF   FAITH      27 

fairy  flowers  of  elm  and  maple,  and  the  tropical  luxu- 
riance that  pushes  its  way  from  the  rosin-tipped,  sweet- 
scented  buds  of  the  cottonwoods.  Never  again  will  you 
pass  a  tree  without  its  cycle  of  beauty  unrolling  before 
you. 

The  serious  crowds  gathered  before  the  seedsmen's 
shops  remind  us  that  many  things  should  have  been  done 
in  the  suburban  garden  before  the  equinox.  Wind-blown 
weeds  and  grass  lodged  in  the  shrubbery  have  been  raked 
out  and  burned,  and  every  shrub  inspected  to  dislodge 
cocoons  and  suspicious  insect  nests. 

Never  mind  what  is  said  of  the  deceit  of  catalogues, 
and  keep  away  from  friends  who  have  fads  without  a  real 
love  for  flowers,  holding  fast  to  your  delights  of  faith. 
The  first  item  for  a  successful  garden  is  to  want  one. 
With  the  desire  comes  intuition,  and  laying  in  a  goodly 
store  of  garden  books  and  talking  to  an  old-timer  who  has 
a  garden  puts  one  on  a  long  way  toward  experience. 
Flower  culture  is  like  child  raising — you  are  dealing  with 
life  in  which  sunshine  and  love  are  essentials. 


WHEN  SPRING  AWAKES 

YELLOW  jonquils  guilty  of  gold  stolen  from  the  sun- 
shine, and  the  violets  breathing  odors  sweet  in 
every  florist's  shop,  assure  us  that  spring  is  here,  with  the 
chariot  of  Apollo  north  of  the  equator  and  lengthening 
days  that  are  wresting  more  minutes  and  hours  from  the 
night.  An  inheritance  of  the  immortal  spirit  of  the  Greeks 
has  given  to  our  own  times  the  association  of  daffodils  and 
swallows,  thyme  and  the  hum  of  bees,  and  charming  sug- 
gestive touches  of  poetry,  without  which  life  would  be  a 
dull  pageant.  How  sweet  the  memory  of  the  flowery 
steps  of  flying  Proserpine ! 

If  the  jonquils  peeping  from  flower  baskets  and  nod- 
ding in  the  hands  of  passers-by  could  speak,  we  might 
learn  of  a  land  where  spring  is  come.  We  should  hear  of 
acres  of  bloom  far  to  the  south,  of  billows  of  gold  that 
we  may  see  with  that  "inward  eye  that  is  the  bliss 
of  solitude";  and  then,  still  in  the  spirit  of  Words- 
worth, "the  heart  with  pleasure  fills  and  dances  with  the 
daffodils." 

But  why  not  have  daffodils  of  our  own4?  Their  time  of 
life  is  brief,  it  is  true,  but  what  a  moment  of  concentrated 
28 


WHEN   SPRING   AWAKES         29 

joy  it  is!  How  does  it  happen  that  we  have  forgotten 
jonquils,  daffodils,  narcissus  poeticus*?  Out  with  the 
garden  plan,  and  put  them  down  along  by  the  lilacs  in  the 
turf  at  the  fence  corner,  and  set  out  a  hundred  and  more 
bulbs  at  the  proper  time.  Underline  it  well,  and  swear 
to  yourself  not  to  forget. 

If  we  had  time  to  mourn  we  would  put  on  sackcloth 
and  strew  ashes  and  berate  ourselves  for  our  forgetful- 
ness,  which  lets  moments  of  purest  delight  flit  by. 

How  many  jonquils  we  have  neglected  to  plant 
through  life,  to  our  own  sorrow !  But  delay  no  longer. 
Look  ahead  to  next  spring,  and  the  merry  frilled  cap  of 
the  sunny  flower  will  nod  to  you  through  the  darkness  of 
wakeful  nights  and  the  gloom  of  heavy  days,  and  you 
can  say,  "I  have  something  to  hope  for — there  is  that  bed 
of  jonquils,  my  company  of  daffodils,  and  the  narcissus 
poeticus  that  blooms  in  May." 

To  begin  with,  buy  a  pot  of  budding  jonquils  now,  es- 
pecially if  you  fear  the  fickleness  of  your  resolution.  A 
dollar  spent  on  enough  to  fill  a  window  brings  royal  re- 
turns; and  note  the  wisdom  of  this,  for,  when  the  flower's 
brief  span  of  life  has  run,  you  can  gather  up  the  bulbs  and 
plant  them  where  you  wish  to  meet  them  again  next 
spring.  The  lawn  mower  will  run  over  them  during  the 
summer,  the  clovers  will  not  whisper  where  they  are  in 
the  grass,  but  next  March  a  bunch  of  flat  spikes  will  push 
through  the  brown  mold.  By  trie  first  of  April  there  will 


30         THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

be  yellow-tinged  buds,  and  some  fair  morning,  when  you 
awake  to  hear  the  robin  in  the  trees,  there  will  be  golden 
trumpets  swaying  to  and  fro,  keeping  time  to  his  matin 
song. 

Perennials  are  the  crown  jewels  of  gardens.  It  is  a 
foolish  procedure  to  uproot  and  change  every  year.  The 
demon  of  novelty  may  beset  us,  and  the  magazines  fill 
pages  with  advice  of  this  or  that  in  good  taste.  It  is  our 
privilege,  however,  to  keep  character  in  our  garden,  to 
seek  the  bloom  time  has  tested,  and  to  make  it  all  a  place 
of  loveliness  to  keep  cheer  in  our  thoughts  as  time  flies  by. 

A  little  plat  back  of  the  house  is  an  opportunity, 
though  from  fence  to  fence  it  is  but  twenty-five  feet.  If 
an  unwilling  city  dweller  looking  for  beauty  in  a  resi- 
dence locality,  you  probably  have  discovered  a  neighbor- 
ing lot  of  this  size,  and  have  gone  out  of  your  way 
sometimes  to  look  through  a  knot  hole  in  a  high  board 
fence  to  find  out  if  the  dielytra  is  hanging  out  its  sprays 
of  bleeding  hearts  at  the  same  time  the  snowball  bush 
which  you  can  see  from  the  street  is  in  bloom,  and  if  the 
peonies  are  still  as  thrifty,  and  if  there  are  enough  May 
pinks  along  the  sidewalk  to  give  you  a  few  for  the  asking. 

Next  to  entering  into  the  pleasure  of  gardens  set  by 
flower  lovers  gone  before,  is  the  keen  satisfaction  of  plan- 
ning one  about  a  new  home.  Perhaps  the  order  should  be 
reversed — the  new  before  the  old — or  maybe  there  is 
no  choice  at  all  when  returns  have  been  weighed.  The 


WHEN   SPRING   AWAKES         31 

altruistic  spirit  is  more  largely  exercised  in  planting  for 
those  who  come  after,  and  it  should  be  tempered  with  a 
serious  responsibility. 

Some  have  been  heard  to  say,  "Decorate  to-day,  for 
to-morrow  you  move,"  and  they  expend  all  their  fancy  on 
potted  geraniums,  palms,  and  hastily  sown  annuals.  To 
the  winds  with  them !  They  well  deserve  to  move  often, 
and  a  concerted  plan  should  forbid  their  ever  having  a 
posy  from  any  of  our  fragrant  borders.  Flower  growing 
may  seem  a  trifling  thing,  but  if  heaven  has  blessed  you 
with  a  bit  of  ground,  remember  the  parable  of  the  man 
with  the  talents  and  turn  to  the  page  in  your  conscience 
that  considers  gardens  for  yourself,  your  neighbors,  and 
to-morrow. 

Why  should  we  be  chosen  from  thousands — we  blessed 
and  they  denied?  Perhaps  they  long  for  a  spade  and 
pruning  hook  more  than  we  do.  Fate,  sharing  her 
bounties,  has  given  us  this — maybe  a  garden  to  plant  in 
common  with  the  bride  of  Twelfthnight  who  has  just 
found  her  nest  beyond  the  city's  roar. 

An  unconquered  suburban  lot  on  a  gloomy  March  day 
has  an  unlovely  aspect,  but  it  is  an  opportunity.  Sitting 
on  the  sunny  corner  of  the  porch  with  the  garden  plat  on 
a  book,  a  catalogue,  and  a  box  of  water  colors,  one  can 
look  abroad  and  in  the  mind's  eye  see  the  perennials 
blooming.  Of  course  they  are  massed  where  they  will  be 
sheltered  and  out  of  the  way  of  the  beds  of  annuals. 


32         THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

Dip  your  brush  in  pink  and  wash  in  a  tall  clump  of 
foxgloves;  the  many  colored  hollyhocks  would  look  well 
hard  by;  the  blue  larkspurs  must  make  a  group  by  them- 
selves; and  there  should  be  a  clump  of  white  phlox — 
the  queens  of  the  meadow. 

Fancy  a  long  row  of  goldenglow  following  the  paths 
for  autumn ;  and  to  this  side,  where  it  may  be  seen,  paint 
a  bleeding  heart  as  the  sign  of  the  clump  of  dielytra,  and, 
where  space  is  to  spare,  the  peonies. 

For  the  sake  of  romance  let  there  be  a  little  violet  bed 
and  a  congenial  place  for  lilies  of  the  valley.  The  pro- 
cession of  perennials  should  keep  pace  with  the  sun,  "the 
daffodils  that  come  before  the  swallow  dares  and  take  the 
winds  of  March  with  beauty,"  and  snowdrops  celebrat- 
ing Easter,  the  bleeding  hearts  at  Whitsuntide,  the 
peonies  and  foxgloves  for  June,  and  the  larkspur,  holly- 
hocks, and  phlox  abiding  with  sweet  William  all  summer 
until  autumn  glory  brings  down  its  own. 

To  catch  pleasure  as  it  flies  is  a  rare  accomplishment. 
The  main  thing  is  to  grasp  the  opportunity,  thanking  the 
stars  that  it  is  yours;  and  to  make  the  best  of  it  with  a 
cheerful  heart,  not  questioning  if  it  is  great  or  small. 

A  thrill  of  music  on  the  air  announces  that  April  is 
here,  whispering  in  the  tones  of  flutes  and  violins  on  the 
three  waxed  cords  of  an  eolian  harp  strung  in  the  east 
window.  In  a  moment  of  vexation  we  turned  to  an  irri- 
tating draft  that  rebelliously  defied  the  March  blast,  and 


WHEN   SPRING   AWAKES         33 

to  thwart  all  naughty  spirits  of  the  air  had  waxed  a  bit  of 
string,  stretched  it  in  the  crevice,  and  lo !  upon  the  listen- 
ing ear  came  the  musical  trumpet  of  winds.  Now  the 
song  without  words  has  faded  in  the  distance  to  give  place 
to  the  long-drawn  sweetness  of  the  fairy  waldhorn  of 
April  and  an  orchestra  of  tremulous  music.  Innocent 
delight  has  been  wrested  from  the  midst  of  besetting 
annoyance,  and  pleasure  caught  as  she  flies. 

The  April  atmosphere  throbs  with  promises — the 
strange  odors  of  blossoming  tree  tops,  of  opening  lilac 
buds,  hint  of  lily  bells  and  the  first  shy  hepatica  above 
ground.  The  scimitars  of  skunk  cabbage  and  blades  of 
iris  announce  a  transformation.  April  skies  and  April 
rains  make  the  background  and  fitting  accompaniment  to 
the  stir  of  awakening  nature  out  of  doors. 

"There's  as  much  in  the  nature  as  in  the  culture  of  the 
soil,"  sang  Cowper  of  the  intellectual  gardens,  which, 
unfortunately,  cannot  be  made  over  with  wood  ashes, 
though  in  the  mental  garden  fencing  plays  its  part  in 
shutting  out  evils  and  in  making  it  ready  to  bear  the  right 
and  agreeable  blossom. 

As  April  really  marks  the  beginning  of  gardening  in  the 
North,  when  frost  is  out  of  the  ground,  it  behooves  us  to 
look  into  the  nature  of  the  soil,  and  perchance  to  scour 
the  neighborhood  for  "the  man  who  knows"  and  can  tell 
what  is  actually  needed.  Then  the  garden  can  be  spaded, 
raked,  and  worked  over,  both  the  nature  and  the  culture 


34         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

of  the  soil  preparing  the  way  for  the  seeds  to  put  in  their 
best  growing.  Plants  are  the  most  grateful  things  on 
earth,  and  abundantly  repay  a  cultivating  hand,  which 
should  be  kept  busy  until  frost  comes. 

Have  you  ever  thought  how  uninteresting  those  things 
are  that  have  no  past  and  seem  to  live  only  in  the  present? 
These  are  the  new  towns  set  up  on  speculation,  the  groups 
of  suburban  villas,  the  rows  of  semi-detached  tenements 
in  which  every  man  tries  to  fancy  he  is  under  his  own 
rooftree,  and  packs  his  belongings  in  the  spring  to  try 
another  house,  vainly  imagining  that  he  is  home-hunting. 

Foolish  man  and  foolish  town !  Had  they  but  planted 
roots  that  would  strike  deep  for  permanency,  twined  a 
vine,  set  a  tree,  before  they  were  aware  they  would  have 
had  a  leafy  background  and  would  be  making  history. 
For  it  is  history — record  of  things  done  to  weave  into  the 
fabric  of  time — that  envelops  houses  and  towns  in  human 
interest  and  really  makes  them  homes. 

If  perchance  yours  is  one  of  a  score  of  little  houses  in 
a  made-to-order  subdivision,  make  the  vow  secretly  to 
step  out  of  the  class,  though  you  are  in  the  midst  of  it. 
Plant  a  syringa,  a  flowering  almond,  and  a  tree  honey- 
suckle in  your  lot,  with  peonies,  bleeding  hearts,  phlox 
and  goldenglow  and,  if  there  is  room,  a  hardy  climbing 
rose,  a  Baltimore  belle  or  rambler,  beside  your  front  door. 
Before  spring  is  gone  this  modest  garden  will  be  the  cen- 
ter of  neighborhood  attraction.  If  you  have  decided  to 


WHEN   SPRING   AWAKES         35 

put  in  a  cherry  tree,  the  migrating  birds  will  have  told  it 
all  along  the  skies;  and  for  a  few  dollars  a  rented  house 
has  become  a  residence  with  a  history. 

Catching  pleasure  as  it  flies  is  not  a  feat  demanding 
money  or  social  standing;  it  is  doing  easy  and  pretty  tasks 
and  not  waiting  until  to-morrow.  Some  one  of  these  days 
there  will  be  a  new  prophet,  who  will  carve  on  his 
temples  "To-day,"  and  straightway  every  one  will  make 
the  best  of  his  passing  hours  and  will  not  put  off  happi- 
ness and  leisure  and  kindliness  until  a  ghostly  to-morrow 
that  never  comes.  Every  householder  will  buy  his  win- 
dow box,  make  his  flower  beds,  and  study  his  catalogue 
for  bloomers  to  make  his  gardens  grow,  and  not  deny 
himself  the  pleasure  until  he  is  "able  to  move  into  the 
country." 

Permanence  is  a  secret  of  the  charm  of  old  gardens. 
It  is  the  thought  that  the  same  flowers  have  bloomed 
year  after  year,  and  have  turned  their  pretty  faces  to  the 
sunshine  of  successive  summers,  increasing  in  glory  with 
the  passing  of  time.  This,  then,  is  a  plea  for  perennials, 
shrubs,  and  ornamental  trees,  which  may  be  compared  to 
the  virtues  giving  beauty  of  character  to  the  encourager 
thereof. 

What  matter  if  one  rents,  and  moves  now  and  then ! 
Does  he  not  get  the  reward  of  his  garden  of  bloom  while 
he  remains,  and  does  he  not  have  the  greater  blessedness 
of  looking  backward  at  the  garden  he  has  left,  knowing 


36         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

that  others  are  watching  orioles  in  the  cherry  tree,  others 
gleaning  surprises  in  spring,  others  enjoying  the  sweetness 
of  his  rosebush?  It  is  enough  to  make  a  man  more  a  man. 
The  nature  of  the  soil  having  been  made  perfect  in 
early  April,  it  is  safe  to  think  about  seeding.  Here  are 
the  lists  of  hardy  perennials  and  annuals,  and  the  lore  of 
dahlias  and  sweet-pea  planting.  Before  the  middle  of 
April  the  native  shrubs  going  to  destruction  in  suburban 
lots  should  be  transplanted  into  the  yard.  What  can  be 
prettier  than  the  Siberian  dogwood,  the  pussy  willow  and 
its  cousins,  and  the  wild  crab?  If  intent  on  improving 
vacant  lots,  a  clump  may  be  planted  there,  as  well  as 
four-o' clocks,  Shirley  poppies,  sunflowers,  and  larkspurs, 
which  persist  under  adversity.  April,  fickle  and  uncer- 
tain, opens  the  planting  time  and  the  practical  garden 
making. 


SWEETNESS  AND  LIGHT 

HAPPINESS  is  a  light-footed  goddess  dancing  at- 
tendance on  the  consciousness  of  work  well  done. 
She  plays  at  hide  and  seek,  evading  you  as  you  turn  to  bid 
her  stay,  then  shyly  comes  upon  you  unawares,  whisper- 
ing a  word  that  your  heart  may  hear  when  you  have  put 
aside  your  longing  in  devotion  to  the  duties  nearest  you. 

Many  a  floral  tragedy  is  created,  many  a  domestic 
failure  precipitated,  by  putting  off  the  day  of  preparation. 
Who  blames  flowers  for  giving  up  the  ghost  when  they 
have  been  invited  into  the  world  to  meet  beds  unready 
and  to  suffer  for  nutriment  and  water?  Who  wonders 
that  household  bliss  fades  away  where  there  is  neither 
cheer  nor  welcome? 

The  world  has  such  as  the  bouncing  Bet  and  happy-go- 
lucky  folk  who  flit  away  from  environment  and  take 
pleasure  gypsying  in  the  sunshine ;  but,  in  truth,  neglected 
gardens,  like  neglected  homes,  are  places  of  discourage- 
ment. In  the  final  accounting  let  us  hope  that  penalties 
for  failure  will  be  laid  on  the  sinners  who  should  have 
cultivated  the  soil  fit  for  rising  ambitions,  and  not  on 
tender  youth  bom  in  an  unfriendly  world. 
37 


38         THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

The  bird  choirs  have  assembled  robins,  bluebirds,  and 
other  songsters  who  wake  with  the  dawn.  Gardening  is 
play  work  when  the  sun  is  shining,  the  heavens  are  of 
April  blue,  and  music  fills  the  air.  The  garden  books 
have  not  marked  the  red-letter  day  of  planting  just  yet, 
but  the  flutter  of  nest  building  and  the  leafing  of  tree 
and  shrub  warn  that  nature  is  going  ahead  with  her  plans. 
She  does  not  stay,  or  linger,  dreading  a  busy  season. 

Who  will  be  to  blame  by  and  by  if  the  seeds  do  not 
come  up1?  Yonder  lie  your  heap  of  perennial  roots  and 
bundles  of  shrubs.  You  wonder  humorously  to  yourself 
why  your  friend  the  florist  does  not  post  a  sign,  "No  gar- 
den without  a  spade." 

The  man  in  search  of  work,  the  man  out  of  a  job,  the 
man  who  yearns  to  earn  an  honest  dollar,  is  not  hunting 
industry  on  the  highroad  at  garden-making  time  in  the 
village.  You  may  lean  on  your  rake  in  the  sunshine 
under  the  robin's  tree  for  sixty  minutes — perhaps  for  a 
whole  morning — and  the  man  with  a  hoe,  or  the  anxious 
laborer,  will  not  loom  up  on  the  hilltop.  The  critical 
moment  of  decision  has  come;  you  must  set  the  alarm 
clock  an  hour  earlier,  and  toil  if  you  would  have  your 
reward. 

Break  up  the  hard  clods  with  a  mattock,  get  the  chil- 
dren to  help  with  rakes,  and  when  the  surface  is  fine  and 
smooth,  the  soil  pulverized,  a  thrill  of  satisfaction  will 
creep  over  your  weary  body,  and  genuine  happiness  greet 


SWEETNESS   AND   LIGHT        39 

a  good  job.  Unless  this  comes  to  pass,  do  not  blame  the 
seedsman  when  seeds  refuse  to  come  up  and  do  their  best. 

Our  trusted  friend  Eben  Rexford  bids  us  have  patience 
and  wait  until  May  before  sowing  annuals.  Turn  the 
pages  of  the  familiar  log  book.  Oh,  rapture !  It  is  sweet- 
pea  planting  time.  "Sow  in  new  ground  as  soon  as  it  can 
be  worked,  except  the  white-seeded  sorts,  which  should  not 
be  sown  until  the  ground  is  comparatively  warm  and 
dry.  Sweet  peas  do  better  in  cool  weather  than  in  hot, 
sending  strong  roots  deep  into  the  soil." 

My  country  friend  favors  a  screen  of  brush  for  his 
sweet  peas,  which  stand  tiptoe,  looking  out  sweetly  from 
the  brown  twigs.  Coarse-meshed  wire  netting,  fastened 
to  posts,  makes  a  practical  trellis  which  the  sweet  peas 
will  cover  with  a  leafy  green  and  fragrant  decoration 
from  June  to  November.  The  failure  of  sweet  peas  usu- 
ally may  be  traced  to  neglect  on  the  part  of  the  gardener. 

The  choice  of  color  is  a  personal  matter,  as  all  sweet 
peas  are  lovely.  Our  friends  who  have  the  naming  pas- 
sion, who  dote  on  calling  snapdragons  antirrhinums  and 
everyday  plants  by  many-syllabled  Latin  titles,  can  in- 
dulge their  memories  with  the  select  "400"  of  sweet-pea 
society.  What  a  delight  to  mention  "Lady  Grizel  Hamil- 
ton," "Countess  Spencer  Var,"  when  we  have  our  com- 
pany manners  on;  or,  when  we  are  sportive,  to  talk 
jocularly  of  the  "Gray  Friar"  or  "Captain  of  the  Blues." 

The  day  of  the  first  blossom  on  the  trellis  will  mark  an 


40         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

epoch  in  the  garden  diary — which  of  course  you  will 
keep,  not  only  recording  flowers,  but  birds,  insects,  tree 
frogs,  and  humankind  that  visit  it.  After  that  eventful 
morning  the  sweet-pea  clippers  must  be  ready,  and  bloom 
not  clipped  for  the  vases  cut  to  prevent  seeding,  as  every 
bit  of  life  should  go  to  making  flowers. 

A  day's  work  with  spade  ends  in  a  luxurious  enjoyment 
of  the  hour  of  April  sunset.  Choose  the  west  window, 
where  the  full  beauty  of  fleeting  gold,  the  brightening  of 
the  silver  crescent  of  the  moon,  and  the  torch  of  Venus 
may  be  yours.  One  of  the  magic  books  may  lie  at  hand, 
and  you  read : 

"Just  when  you  were  safest,  there  's  a  sunset  touch. 
A  fancy  from  a  flower-bell,  some  one's  death. 
A  chorus  ending-  from  Euripides — 
And  that 's  enough  for  fifty  hopes  and  fears 
As  old  and  new  at  once  as  nature's  self 
To  rap  and  knock  and  enter  in  our  soul. 
Take  hands  and  dance  there,  a  fantastic  ring 
Round  the  ancient  idol  on  his  base  again — 
The  grand  Perhaps !" 

What  heresy  is  this  in  the  face  of  the  sky  pageant,  the 
vespers  of  the  birds,  and  the  hopes  of  sweet  peas  planted 
in  the  garden!  Shut  the  door  on  the  elves  of  doubt. 
There  is  no  "grand  perhaps";  the  grass  is  green  once 
more,  the  crocus  holds  up  its  chalice  of  gold,  and  nature, 
unfaltering,  is  true  to  her  ancient  promises. 


SWEETNESS   AND   LIGHT        41 

To  dress  and  to  invite  one's  soul  is  a  privilege  without 
price — and  without  sin  if  we  invite  the  gods.  To  loaf 
and  to  invite  nonsense  is  another  thing  in  tune  with  plant- 
ing thistles  for  the  sake  of  watching  them  come  up.  But 
who  will  say  us  nay  when  we  half  shut  our  eyes  and 
behold  iris  trailing  her  rainbow  robes  across  the  sunny 
slopes  of  the  ravines,  awakening  the  rosy  hepaticas  to 
paint  beauty  over  the  brown  earth,  or  follow  her  to  the 
brook  when  the  buttercups  and  cowslips  open  their  golden 
coffers  at  the  call  of  spring ! 

What  punishment  more  awful  than  to  be  "shut  away 
in  outer  darkness,"  without  fragrance,  music,  or  color, 
and  to  have  eyes  that  see  not  and  ears  that  hear  not?  The 
perfume  of  opening  violets  and  lilac  buds,  the  blue  of 
rain-washed  April  skies,  and  the  wind  harps  in  the  tree 
tops  accompanying  the  robin's  matin  song  would  be  as 
things  that  were  not. 

It  is  a  blessed  chance  that  coin  from  the  mint  cannot 
purchase  these  things,  or  earthly  painters  change  the  color 
harmonies  that  nature  plays  upon  our  eyes  as  strains  of 
music  fascinate  our  ears.  The  humblest  and  most  sorely 
distressed  needs  but  invite  his  soul  to  the  vision  of  azure 
beds  of  scillas  reflecting  the  blue  of  heaven  from  the  fresh 
green  of  the  young  grass  on  the  lawn,  or  look  with  rapture 
upon  the  gold-woven  tapestry  of  royal  crocuses  gemmed 
with  the  dew  of  early  morning,  or  go  in  search  of  the  pink 
clouds  of  peach  and  apple  bloom  in  the  groves. 


42         THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

In  thinking  of  other  worlds  beyond,  we  should  have 
vast  comfort  in  this  if  we  were  certain  that  we  could  en- 
joy our  garnered  experience,  which  we  have  bought  so 
dearly.  Last  season  there  was  the  memory  of  a  tangled 
flower  garden  where  each  sweet  thing  went  its  willful 
way — and  surely  flowers  ought  to  know  what  is  best  and 
grow  in  grace  if  given  their  way.  We  know  advocates  of 
natural  gardens  for  children  as  well  as  for  flowers  every- 
where, and  it  is  probable  that  the  outcome  is  marked  with 
the  same  astonishing  results,  since  foxes  of  mischief  and 
vagrant  weeds  of. ne'er-do- well  tendencies  creep  through 
the  palings  left  unwatched. 

"Plant  things  sure  to  grow  and  leave  the  rest  to  na- 
ture," said  a  wiseacre  disciple  of  the  natural  garden,  pre- 
senting the  seeds.  Later  he  walked  by  on  the  other  side 
of  the  street  as  scarlet  zinnias  touched  elbows  with  purple 
phlox  and  blue  larkspur  and  tall  sunflowers  looked  dis- 
consolate among  weigelas  amabilis. 

The  disciple  of  the  natural  garden  groaned  inwardly 
while  confessing  that  he  had  not  dreamed  a  color  scheme 
and  invited  his  soul  before  seed  buying.  "All  chance, 
direction  which  we  cannot  see,"  he  murmured.  "Even 
nature  plans  her  color  schemes,  groups  her  plants,  and 
harmonizes  with  ribbons  of  white  and  green."  The 
superb  scarlet  zinnias  massed  by  themselves  with  the 
green  grass  all  around  or  a  fringe  of  dainty  feverfews, 
the  purple  phlox  associated  with  their  white  kindred  in  a 


SWEETNESS   AND    LIGHT         43 

clump  apart,  and  the  larkspur  tangled  with  Shasta  daisies, 
and  order  and  harmony  reign  among  these  simple  folk. 

As  in  life  we  should  choose  friends  for  youth  and 
friends  for  age,  some  for  the  idle  hour  and  many  for  the 
everyday  of  passing  years,  in  a  like  humor  we  may  as- 
semble our  flower  companies  to  keep  pace  with  the  moods 
from  January  until  Christmas.  Why  haste  to  plant  all 
the  garden  at  once,  when  it  is  so  important,  and  the 
working  and  planning  are  a  delight1?  Its  beauty,  after 
all,  is  the  reflection  of  the  inner  taste  of  the  ardent 
gardener. 

When  to-morrow  you  stop  to  look  across  a  lawn  where 
bloodroot  is  nodding  its  cap  among  the  hepaticas  under 
the  shrubbery,  and  where  trilliums  are  lifting  the  mold 
under  the  snowberry  bushes,  and  there  are  signs  of  colum- 
bine and  shooting  stars,  you  may  smile  to  yourself  that  all 
that  simplicity  is  like  a  charming  verse  of  poetry,  the  fine 
picture  of  a  divine  thought  of  one  who  roved  the  wild- 
flower  haunts. 

And  as  you  go  down  the  street,  and  the  tender  grass 
waves  about  clumps  of  sunny  jonquils,  and  there  the  sun 
shines  warmest  where  a  colony  of  narcissus  poeticus  is 
swaying,  and  in  prim  rows  the  tulip  blades  have  cut  stiff 
ranks  across  the  lawn,  you  may  say  to  yourself  that  here 
is  one  who  has  hoped  and  is  now  having  high  festival  be- 
cause of  dreams  coming  true. 

Then  perchance,  as  you  note  the  ruddy  buds  of  peonies 


44         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

and  sharp  swords  of  iris  peeping  above  the  ground,  you 
pray  your  memory  to  remind  you  to  pass  that  way  again 
in  May  to  feast  your  eyes  on  the  purple  of  the  iris  and 
the  luxuriant  bloom  of  the  peonies  while  the  air  is  heavy 
with  their  fragrance  and  bees  are  gathering  sweets. 

Some  time  in  your  wandering  you  may  rest  under  a 
hedge,  awaiting  the  passing  of  an  April  shower,  and  look 
forth  into  a  quiet  little  garden  that  brought  out  a  picture 
of  last  June.  Then  it  was  flame  and  mystery  with  hosts 
of  Oriental  poppies,  glowing  red,  dropping  their  heavy 
heads  amid  cool  green  foliage.  What  a  wealth  of  gor- 
geous color  was  that  tiny  garden !  And  as  July  came  and 
once  more  you  turned  your  steps  to  its  familiar  paths, 
lo!  a  cloth  of  gold,  eschscholtzia  of  the  Golden  West, 
spread  splendor  all  about,  and  you  vexed  your  heart  to 
know  what  manner  of  gardener  had  sown  seeds  to  blossom 
so  royally.  Nor  was  the  pageant  done,  for  the  frosted 
autumn  woods  bent  above  the  cardinal  of  salvia  framed 
in  wreaths  of  star-eyed  asters  and  goldenrod,  and,  as  win- 
ter snows  lay  deep,  the  mountain  ash,  bittersweet,  and 
scarlet  berry  shone  above  the  snow. 

The  poet's  feeling  for  sweetness  and  light  leads  us  to 
make  the  garden  charming  with  color  and  perfume. 
When  we  recall  the  old  garden  treasured  in  memory  it 
had  its  color  dream  to  live  in  the  mind's  eye;  a  back- 
ground of  flaunting  pink  hollyhocks  against  a  distant 
fence,  a  thriving  tangle  of  mignonette — maybe  naught 


SWEETNESS   AND   LIGHT        45 

but  a  mound  of  tropic  petunias  heavy  scented,  or  in  a 
kitchen  garden  yellow-frilled  marigolds  and  honeyed 
wallflowers. 

It  is  an  idle  thing  to  scatter  the  seeds  of  good  intentions 
far  and  wide  with  a  careless  hand.  The  strong  plants  will 
tower  above  the  weaker,  and  the  frail  faint  in  the  shad- 
ows, for  that  is  the  inscrutable  law  of  life.  The  garden 
picture  is  arranged  by  the  laws  of  gentle  living  for  sweet- 
ness and  light  and  the  joy  of  color.  Have  fragrance 
aplenty — mignonette,  rose  geranium,  lavender,  and  lemon 
verbena — and  amid  their  cool  greens  weave  a  galaxy  of 
hues  to  give  the  beauty  of  the  rainbow  through  a  season. 

To-morrow  will  be  May  Day.  How  the  merrymak- 
ers of  old  England  loved  it!  "Corinna,  come,  let  's 
go  a-Maying"  out  in  the  meadows  where  the  cowslips 
spread  gold  for  the  larks  and  throstles.  An  English  May 
is  a  joyous  time,  and  of  uncommon  power  to  awaken  in 
Milton,  the  sturdy  Puritan,  the  song: 

"Now  the  bright  morning  star,  day's  harbinger, 
Comes  dancing  from  the  East,  and  leads  with  her 
The  flow'ry  May,  who  from  her  green  lap  throws 
The  yellow  cowslip,  and  the  pale  primrose. 
Hail,  bounteous  May,  that  doth  inspire 
Mirth  and  youth  and  warm  desire; 
Woods  and  groves  are  of  thy  dressing, 
Hill  and  dale  doth  boast  thy  blessing. 
Thus  we  salute  thee  with  our  early  song, 
And  welcome  thee,  and  wish  thee  long." 


46         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

Our  land  may  be  too  young  to  have  matured  a  love  for 
wandering  in  spring  and  taking  what  God's  lovely  earth 
gives  freely  for  the  pleasure  of  all.  It  is  not  too  late  to 
walk  new  paths.  Work  and  then  play.  Let's  all  go 
a-Maying.  The  woods  and  marshes  are  clad  in  fresh 
beauty.  Come,  let 's  go  a-Maying ! 


THE  USES  OF  ADVERSITY 

IT  cannot  be  counted  a  sin  to  envy  the  goodwife  who 
goes  abroad  in  the  dewy  sweetness  of  the  early  morn- 
ing to  dig  dandelions  from  the  grass  on  the  park  lawns. 
The  atmosphere  in  the  first  hours  of  a  May  day  is  pale 
with  gauzy  vapors  rising  from  the  ponds  and  exhaled  by 
the  bursting  buds  on  shrubs  and  trees.  It  is  laden  with 
the  odor  of  an  incense  faint  and  exhilarating  that  wears 
the  tremulous  pianissimo  of  lily  bells  and  honeysuckle 
flutes. 

To  such  music  the  goodwife  takes  her  basket  and  goes 
to  the  shrine  of  Mother  Nature,  and  there  one  may  find 
her  on  her  knees  among  the  tender  herbage,  hoarding  the 
gold  of  the  dandelion.  She  shares  her  treasure  with  the 
few  elect,  and,  when  dandelion  season  is  gone,  her  simple 
faith  in  flower  lore  brings  her  again  to  knock  at  our  doors 
with  her  basket  heaped  with  old-fashioned  bouquets  of 
spice  pinks,  verbenas,  mourning  brides,  alyssum,  and 
sweet  marjoram,  bordered  with  the  lace  of  asparagus. 

Happy  is  he  who  has  found  his  gospel  of  art  and  is 
satisfied  therein.  It  is  simple  enough,  if  one  is  content  to 
£0  through  life  looking  through  a  punched  elder  stem. 
47 


48         THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

But  if  one  is  without  blinders,  and  greets  the  dandelion 
gatherer  and  her  bouquet  sisterhood  in  the  morning,  meets 
our  friend  of  the  Japanese  cult  at  luncheon,  and  dines 
with  a  florist,  he  ponders  into  the  long  reaches  of  the  night 
and  begs  of  the  powers  that  be  for  a  sign  of  the  right  and 
true  way. 

No  gentle  heart  could  deny  sympathy  with  the  posy 
bunch  of  the  dandelion  gatherer,  nor  could  the  finest 
tuned  reject  the  gray- toned  room  with  its  single  opening 
rosebud  leaning  from  a  crystal  vase,  nor  could  one  turn  a 
deaf  ear  to  the  creed  of  a  "mum"  or  carnation  breeder; 
the  world  has  room  for  them  all.  It  is  only  a  question  of 
selection  and  sociability. 

The  generous,  loving  heart  would  in  time  rebel  at  the 
vacant  harmonies,  the  solitude  of  self  and  none  other  in 
the  esthetic  room,  and  the  "mum"  breeder  would  join  in 
stealing  off  for  a  holiday  behind  the  hedge,  where  the 
country  folk  were  sharing  harmless  gossip  and  making 
bouquets  for  everyday  homes,  where  willow  chairs 
elbowed  with  mahogany,  and  books  of  verse  disturbed  the 
dust  on  neglected  volumes  of  wisdom,  while  the  wander- 
ing breeze  rustled  the  chintz  curtains  before  the  casement. 

Then,  if  we  are  given  the  grace  to  have  courage  to 
cultivate  a  tangle  of  familiar  flowers  that  live  but  a  sum- 
mer, the  sun  warns  us  that  it  is  high  time  to  plant  the 
seeds.  We  may  yet  get  ahead  of  the  ambitious  neighbors 
who  made  garden  in  April,  for  no  seed  will  sprout  before 


THE   USES   OF   ADVERSITY      49 

the  ground  is  well  warmed  to  that  cozy,  half-dry  condi- 
tion, not  too  dry  nor  yet  too  moist,  suitable  to  hold  and 
feed  hungry  rootlets.  Most  of  the  annuals  do  not  root 
deeply,  but  live  from  day  to  day  on  sunshine  and  surface 
moisture,  in  common  with  many  other  gay  children  of  the 
human  species  on  earth. 

While  we  may  indulge  in  the  luxury  of  a  pergola 
draped  with  vines,  one  for  each  season,  or  have  sunken 
gardens  or  water  gardens  for  show,  the  woman  gardener, 
with  a  strain  of  the  feeling  of  the  dandelion  gatherer, 
takes  her  genuine  comfort  in  the  border  of  old-fashioned 
flowers.  The  flowers  themselves  are  as  curious  and  way- 
ward as  the  folk  of  a  country  village,  and  their  outlook 
on  life  just  as  illogical. 

Annuals  in  general  refuse  to  grow  symmetrically,  and 
the  botanist  in  search  of  freaks  always  finds  his  reward  in 
quaint  variations  of  the  reversions  to  an  original  type. 
But  the  gentle  housewife  thinks  of  none  of  these  things, 
cherishing  the  notion  that  she  is  going  gardening  when 
she  puts  on  her  sunbonnet,  her  leather  gloves,  and  takes 
her  basket  of  tools — a  trowel,  weeder,  and  clippers. 

Before  this  happy  stage  of  action  is  reached,  who  can 
tell  what  strategy  has  been  practiced,  what  battles  fought 
with  the  goodman  of  the  house,  or  the  arch  enemy  of 
things  unconventional,  the  architect  and  the  artistic  land- 
scape gardener*?  It  is  not  well  to  meet  in  open  fray  in 
gardening  any  more  than  it  is  in  nine  tenths  of  the  issues 


50         TH.E   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

of  life.  The  enemy  must  be  circumvented  by  guile;  he 
must  be  conquered  without  his  knowing  it;  and  he  must 
be  left  imagining  himself  victor  while  the  gentle  house- 
wife goes  her  way  quietly  enjoying  the  spoils  of  conquest, 
which,  when  the  truth  is  told,  are  all  that  she  cares  for. 

Granting  that  the  architect  has  set  the  house  in  green- 
sward with  a  motto  of  silence  and  serenity,  eliminating 
notes  of  distraction  to  rest-seeking  minds,  then  choose  the 
other  side  of  the  grounds  and  shield  the  riot  of  merry 
color  by  a  hedge  of  hydrangeas  or  castor  beans,  if  he  will 
not  permit  you  to  run  your  sweet-pea  screen  across  this 
line.  Hidden  from  view  of  the  highroad,  one  may  do 
what  one  will  with  his  own,  and  give  no  offense  to  the 
high-bred  taste  of  the  master  who  contemplates  his  single 
clump  of  Japanese  iris  in  ecstasy,  or  has  made  the  happi- 
ness of  a  summer  depend  on  a  mound  of  flaming  cannas 
edged  with  calladiums  and  waving  grasses. 

Alas  for  the  apartment-house  born  and  bred  who  have 
no  memories  of  old  gardens;  and  joy  go  with  those  who 
are  making  their  first  suburban  garden  of  annuals !  Take 
comfort  in  the  thought  that  the  simple  plants  are  deter- 
mined to  grow  if  given  a  chance,  and  that  the  books  will 
help  the  inexperienced. 

We  who  know  just  a  little,  and  have  stolen  a  march 
and  prepared  the  earth,  should  keep  a  sunny  spot  for 
nasturtiums,  which  will  sprawl  or  climb  and  give  bloom 
for  bouquets  until  killing  frost.  Petunias  also  enjoy  a 


THE   USES   OF   ADVERSITY      51 

sunny  colony;  and  Shasta  daisies,  sweet  alyssum,  candy- 
tuft, sweet-scented  stocks,  rose  geraniums,  and  lemon  ver- 
bena, planted  irregularly,  harmonize  the  variety  of  colors. 

Among  the  yellows  to-day  is  a  fine,  tall  snapdragon, 
and  the  calendulas,  coreopsis  and  calliopsis,  and  mari- 
golds have  not  lost  a  whit  of  their  gold.  The  pinks  are  a 
host  in  themselves  in  bouquets,  and  for  blues  we  must 
have  forget-me-nots,  velvet  pansies,  lobelia,  and  larkspur; 
in  red,  nothing  finer  than  a  poppy;  for  purple,  heliotrope 
and  ageratum,  and  the  tapestry  of  many-colored  phlox, 
aster,  and  zinnia,  and,  for  fun,  love-in-a-mist  and  ragged 
robins. 

Yes,  there  are  many  more;  but,  as  in  life,  too  many 
friends  are  as  heartbreaking  as  none  at  all,  when  we  can- 
not gather  them  about  us.  Here,  too,  we  must  choose 
the  few  who  will  sweeten  our  days. 

More  than  common  piety  must  abide  in  the  soul  that 
accepts  the  sweet  uses  of  adversity  without  a  murmur 
when  May  borrows  caprice  of  April,  and  with  the  windy 
temper  of  a  vixen  drenches  the  newly-seeded  beds  and 
washes  the  furrows  into  miniature  rivers,  creating  rapids 
from  the  plots  of  choice  phlox  to  the  cherished  planta- 
tions of  pompon  asters.  All  in  the  garden  that  was  made 
fit  and  fine  has  been  the  sport  of  the  storm. 

How  we  had  boasted  of  its  neatness,  and  discoursed 
with  envious  neighbors  on  what  June  had  in  store,  and 
the  parades  of  July  and  of  August,  culminating  in  the 


52         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

glory  of  autumn!  When,  behold,  as  if  Nemesis  heark- 
ened, a  little  cloud  appears  in  the  azure  sky,  there  is  a 
flash  of  lightning,  and  the  storm  riots  overhead,  the  gale 
rushing  down  to  play  havoc  among  our  treasured  posses- 
sions, while  the  rain  falls  in  torrents. 

Creatures  of  fate  that  we  are,  it  is  folly  to  make  com- 
plaint, and  naught  abides  but  hope,  looking  for  sunshine 
in  the  sweet  uses  of  adversity.  And  then  comes  the  morn- 
ing after,  and  if  we  are  not  blinded  by  stubbornness  we 
must  rejoice  in  the  splendid  greens  of  rain-washed  lawns 
and  the  exultant  rustle  of  the  refreshed  trees. 

"Let  patience  have  its  perfect  work,"  echoes  the  old 
phrase  of  wisdom,  written  by  one  who  had  not  burned 
with  a  passion  for  gardens  nor  felt  the  smarts  of  disap- 
pointment. Yet  what  is  there  to  do  but  to  lean  over  the 
garden  fence,  and  observe  that  our  neighbors  have  fared 
alike*?  All  must  wait  for  things  to  dry,  the  pools  to  dis- 
appear, and  true  hills  of  sweet  peas  and  the  borders  of 
annuals  to  take  on  a  natural  aspect. 

A  warm  May  day  is  ideal  weather;  and,  as  we  watch, 
the  hardy  primroses  seem  to  shake  their  leaves  and  to 
turn  their  frilled  caps  to  the  sky,  the  pansies  smooth  out 
their  wrinkles,  and  forget-me-nots  and  arabis  look  as  fresh 
as  if  nature  had  touched  them  up  with  a  paintbrush.  It 
we  had  our  way  there  would  be  no  spring  thunder  gusts, 
but  the  weather  scheme  takes  into  account  the  delights  of 
surprises,  and  now  in  this,  the  day  after,  we  discover  that 


THE   USES   OF   ADVERSITY      53 

perhaps  the  rain  was  not  so  bad  after  all,  and  that  flowers 
have  a  wonderful  gift  of  looking  out  for  themselves. 

As  we  lean  over  the  garden  fence,  the  heart  leaps  at  the 
sight  of  dandelion  gold.  The  host  arrived  in  a  single 
night,  whole  colonies  and  companies,  to  possess  the  land. 
Their  advance  sentinels  came  days  ago,  but  who  had 
pictured  such  an  invasion,  lavishly  spreading  carpets  of 
purest  gold  along  the  roadside*? 

The  dandelion  gatherer  is  harvesting  in  the  fields 
yonder,  the  grass  cutter  stands  with  his  lawn  mower  in 
the  middle  of  the  road  and  knits  his  brows  over  the  mis- 
chievous plants  that  betrayed  him  while  every  well- 
behaved  creature  behind  the  fence  was  shrinking  before 
the  storm.  His  crony,  an  old  gardener,  comes  along  and, 
leaning  on  his  rake,  confesses  that  he  has  a  tenderness  for 
dandelions;  that  he  likes  to  see  a  disk  of  gold  among  the 
dewy  grass  of  the  early  morning;  that  he  would  invite  a 
wee  crimson-tipped  daisy  to  make  free  with  his  lawn,  and 
had  smuggled  in  a  camomile  because  it  shed  a  fragrance 
when  the  foot  crushed  it  while  treading  the  grass. 

These  give  the  human  touch  to  the  most  perfect  of 
seeded  lawns,  something  to  make  the  heart  beat  faster 
for  beauty's  sake,  a  modest  flower  to  recall  a  poet,  a  blos- 
som to  breathe  fragrance  and  to  entertain  the  errant  bee. 

Thus  the  law  of  perfection  is  put  to  naught  if  you 
lend  an  ear  to  the  personal  equation;  but,  as  John  Sed- 
ding,  prince  of  garden  lovers,  has  said,  while  men  are 


54         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

what  they  are  art  is  not  all.  Man  has  viking  passions 
as  well  as  Eden  instincts,  and  the  over-civilized  man  who 
scorns  feasting  with  common  folk  has  lost  primal  sympa- 
thy and  much  happiness. 

The  sin  of  exclusiveness  joins  the  theory  of  order  in 
advising  the  rejection  of  dandelions,  daisies,  and  others 
escaped  from  gardens.  The  flaunting  tulip,  in  a  fringed 
coat  of  many  colors,  with  a  pedigree  from  Van  Dam  of 
Holland  which  has  cost  more  dollars  than  the  dandelion 
gatherer  will  ask  in  cents  for  a  bushel  of  her  spoils,  roots 
and  all,  dares  not  touch  the  hem  of  the  dandelion  or  camo- 
mile garment  when  it  comes  to  the  sturdy  virtues  of  per- 
sistence, endurance,  and  smiling  in  the  face  of  adversity. 

And  so  it  is  with  the  host  of  the  common  people  to-day 
and  to-morrow,  ever  attending  to  business  in  sunshine  and 
in  rain,  the  best  of  company,  striking  roots  deeper  and 
living  up  to  the  faith  that 

"Who  shuts  his  hand  hath  lost  its  gold, 
Who  opens  it  hath  it  twice  told," 

as  George  Herbert  so  prettily  tells  it.  He  too  belonged 
to  the  brotherhood,  and  bequeathed  us  a  magic  book. 

When  dandelions  blow  and  the  roadsides  in  the  coun- 
try are  purple  with  violets,  fair  Phyllis  in  the  garden 
longs  to  transplant  wild  flowers  to  her  beds  and  make 
them  her  own.  Violets  will  come  gladly,  because  in  their 


THE   USES   OF   ADVERSITY      55 

associations  with  human  folk  they  have  philosophically 
adapted  themselves  to  changes  of  moods  and  will  ac- 
commodate themselves  to  circumstances.  Other  wildings 
are  not  so  hardy,  the  shock  of  transplanting  and  the 
absence  of  wild  earth,  of  decayed  leaves,  or  undisturbed 
soil,  trouble  their  nerves,  and  rather  than  keep  up  a  piti- 
ful struggle  they  give  up  the  ghost  and  vanish  from  the 
ken  of  society. 

A  tragedy  comes  to  pass  in  woodland  life  when  some 
well-meaning  flower  lover  uproots  hepaticas,  trilliums, 
columbine,  wild  flowers,  and  all  the  pretty  folk,  carries 
them  withering  in  a  basket,  and  strives  to  make  them 
adorn  the  earth  in  prim  rows  in  a  flower  bed ;  but  if  one  is 
so  fortunate  as  to  own  a  corner  of  waste  woodland,  or  a 
ravine,  then  wild-flower  planting  is  an  opportunity. 

There  we  may  scatter  with  lavish  hands  the  seeds  of 
partridge  berry,  broom  and  furze,  plant  sweetbrier,  witch- 
hazel,  wild  roses  and  wild  crab,  and  root  beelwort,  Solo- 
mon's seal,  and  Jack-in-the-pulpit.  Thunder  storms  may 
shatter  the  elements,  but  a  wild-flower  garden  of  this  kind 
will  laugh  it  to  scorn  and  become  a  haven  for  wild  beauties 
of  feathers  and  of  fur  as  well  as  of  flowers  of  the  earth. 


WHEN  SOUL  HELPS  FLESH 

IN  that  castle  in  Spain  we  have  dreamed  of  for  our  sun- 
set years  when  leisure  awaits  our  bidding,  all  clocks 
will  chime  the  waking  hour  at  break  of  day.  None  of  the 
roseate  loveliness  of  dawn  will  escape  us,  and  we  shall  be 
abroad  to  keep  company  with  the  songsters  and  the  busy 
folk  of  the  feathered  and  winged  world.  They  haste 
about  their  business  as  soon  as  it  is  light;  and  we  shall  go 
to  our  rest  when  they  have  ceased  from  their  labors  and 
the  twilight  has  lowered  the  purple  curtains  of  night. 

The  present  scheme  of  the  day's  work  is  not  best  for 
successful  gardening,  for  while  the  gardener  takes  a  morn- 
ing nap  all  nature  gets  in  extra  stints  of  labor.  Only  yes- 
terday weeding  began,  and  for  that  unwonted  season  of 
energy  soul  was  tardy  in  inspiring  flesh  to  shake  off  its 
slumbers  and  take  itself  briskly  out  of  doors. 

Memories  of  weed  pulling  weighed  heavily,  like  the 
burden  of  Atlas,  stirring  the  sources  of  vexation.  While 
we  had  long  since  convinced  ourselves  that  we  had  risen 
superior  to  growing  pains  and  wisdom  teeth,  a  painful 
reminder  besets  the  joints,  perchance  an  ancestral  gift  of 
housemaid's  knee,  a  crick  in  the  back,  or,  that  vicious 
56 


WHEN   SOUL   HELPS   FLESH     57 

thing,  an  error  of  the  imagination,  clouding  hopeful  en- 
thusiasm and  blinding  the  sight  to  visions  of  blooming 
gardens. 

If  the  little  breeze  should  cease  playing  interludes  on 
the  wind  harp  on  the  sill,  the  curtain  would  be  drawn  in 
an  instant  to  shut  out  the  inviting  sunshine  and  the  jeers 
of  blue  jays,  and  the  satisfied  "cheer-up,  cheer-up"  of  the 
robins,  all  of  which  are  a  reproach  and  a  warning.  From 
past  experiences  we  know  only  too  well  that  weeds  grow 
apace  these  fine  mornings,  and  early  birds  levy  taxes  on 
lettuce  beds  and  give  thanks  after  salad. 

Weeding  time  is  here,  alas!  and  fasting  hours  for 
nature  that  flies  or  crawls.  Rather  a  cushioned  chair  on 
the  sheltered  side  of  the  porch,  a  book  or  two,  Omar  or 
Walden,  and  let  the  time  fleet  pleasantly,  than  a  weeding 
rug,  the  broad-brimmed  hat,  gloves,  a  basket,  trowel,  and 
clippers.  Yes,  the  secret  of  discontent  is  out — weeding 
time  is  here. 

Bestir  yourself,  idle  gardener!  Watchfulness  is  the 
price  of  virtue,  industry  the  foe  of  garden  flowers.  While 
you  have  slept  on  your  pillow  and  neglected  reverence  at 
the  shrine  of  a  sunrise  in  June,  selfish  longings  for  com- 
fort have  filled  your  mind,  and  weeds  have  pushed  roots 
deep  into  the  soil  of  the  flower  beds.  Cutworms  have 
made  cruel  sport,  and  sparrows  and  doves  have  played 
havoc  with  tender  sprouts. 

Why  should  birds  hunt  seed  boxes  on  bird  tables  when 


58         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

tempting  greens  grow  for  their  eating,  and  that  strange 
human  in  the  sunbonnet,  who  coaxes  or  "shoos"  as  the 
notion  is  upon  her,  is  wasting  the  best  hours  of  the 
twenty- four  thinking  about  herself?  Look  forth  from 
the  window  and  behold  a  sorry  sight,  my  idle  gardener. 
No  wonder  the  blue  jay  laughed  wildly,  the  catbird  was 
gleeful  with  satire,  or  the  woodpecker  beat  a  triumphant 
tattoo  on  the  trunk  of  the  hollow  oak — everything  abroad 
has  been  a  living  legend  of  enterprise. 

Even  now  more  sparrows  are  busy  among  the  radishes 
and  young  onions  than  we  thought  could  be  trapped  in  the 
neighborhood.  Blackbirds  and  robins  together  are  pull- 
ing worms  in  the  pansy  beds,  yet  there  seems  a  lurking 
guilt  back  of  the  unconscious  posing,  and  a  suspicion  that 
they  are  spying  out  the  color  of  ripening  cherries  on  our 
one  treasured  tree.  Worm  pulling  may  be  but  a  diver- 
sion to  pass  the  time,  and  who  knows  if  birds  may  not  take 
lessons  from  the  handsome  bantam  rooster  which  crept 
under  the  fence  and  is  making  the  dirt  fly  where  we  sowed 
the  imported  seeds  from  Japan? 

Every  plan  for  striking  terror  to  the  heart  of  the  enemy 
has  failed.  The  fluttering  flags,  presumed  to  suggest 
traps  to  sparrows,  wave  among  the  green  like  so  many 
signals  of  peace,  and  both  scarecrows  and  stuffed  owls 
have  come  to  naught. 

A  warbler  is  perched  on  the  shoulder  of  the  mummied 
bird  of  night,  singing  a  joyous  lyric,  and  I  verily  believe 


WHEN   SOUL   HELPS   FLESH     59 

that  the  china  cat,  cozily  dozing  on  the  fence  to  be  a 
menace  to  hungry  doves,  was  touched  with  a  wand  over- 
night and  invited  all  stray  kittens  to  join  her  and  make 
merry.  Surely  that  is  a  fluffy  angora  on  its  back,  playing 
with  the  strings  stretched  for  the  passion  vine,  a  precious 
vine  carried  from  an  old  plantation  down  in  Alabama; 
and,  if  eyes  do  not  deceive,  another  kitten  is  hunting 
catnip  among  the  flourishing  fringed  phlox  and  snap- 
dragons. Had  we  been  up  with  the  dawn  this  would  not 
have  happened. 

"To  sum  up  the  whole  matter,  this  unmitigated  hostil- 
ity of  the  cultured  man  (with  Jacob's  smooth  hand  and 
Esau's  wild  blood)  to  the  amenities  of  civilized  life, 
brings  us  back  to  the  point  whence  we  started  at  the  com- 
mencement of  this  chapter.  While  men  are  what  they 
are,  art  is  not  all.  Man  has  viking  passions  as  well  as 
Eden  instincts.  Man  is  of  mixed  blood,  whose  sym- 
pathies are  not  so  much  divided  as  double.  And  all  man 
asks  for  is  all  of  nature,  and  is  not  content  with  less.  To 
the  over-civilized  man — " 

This  was  the  page  at  which  the  book  fell  open  beside 
the  breakfast  plate,  and  we  lost  the  aroma  of  the  first  cup 
of  coffee  reading  more.  The  unfolding  of  the  scheme  of 
life,  whether  in  gardens  or  on  streets,  is  just  this  thing — 
pitched  battle  with  two  enemies,  that  of  inclination  and 
that  of  the  tide  of  human  fellows  and  nature's  followers 
at  our  elbows.  Turn  the  fight  to  rout  one,  and  the  other 


60         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

gains  the  ascendency;  if  we  plume  ourselves  on  rounding 
out  personal  life,  conceit  plants  a  thousand  faults  to 
sprout  amain,  and  jealous  enemies  unite  for  our  destruc- 
tion. If  we  forget  self,  on  the  other  hand,  to  uproot  the 
weeds  and  drive  off  aggressors,  then  the  selfish  fibers  of 
our  hearts  harden,  the  vision  narrows,  and  the  contest 
robs  man  of  his  divinity. 

So  fares  the  battle,  and  with  the  knowledge  of  it  we 
pray  in  the  dark  and  work  by  day,  asking  for  grace  and 
wielding  the  pruning  hook  alternately  with  the  sword. 
It  is  a  glad  fight  when  one  resolves  to  be  captain  of  his 
soul.  The  Eden  instincts  soar  for  ideals;  the  viking  blood 
sweeps  from  reach  the  returning  savage.  Yes,  it 's  a  brave 
fight,  this  adventure  of  living,  and  a  bit  of  byplay  is  the 
weeding. 

After  breakfast  coffee  the  world  looks  brighter,  and  we 
are  willing  to  extend  pardons  to  all  early  birds  who 
would  feast  on  rising.  As  soon  as  the  sunbonnet  appears 
at  the  doorway  the  scamps  wing  to  their  places  in  the 
trees,  and  perhaps  after  all  they  have  only  eaten  a  proper 
share  of  nature's  providing.  Who  would  do  without 
robins,  for  all  the  pansy  beds;  who  would  exterminate  a 
catbird  because  of  his  pranks,  or  banish  the  social  spar- 
rows? Under  the  sapphire  blue  of  skies  in  June  the 
heart  expands  in  good  will  and  sings  the  great  Ode  to 
Jov  to  an  orchestration  of  winds  in  the  trees  and  music  of 


WHEN    SOUL   HELPS   FLESH     61 

the  spheres,  finer  harmonies  than  the  mighty  hymn  in 
Beethoven's  symphony. 

The  roses  are  bursting  their  buds,  the  syringas  nave 
opened  their  crystalline  blossoms  with  hearts  of  pure  gold, 
shedding  fragrance  sweeter  than  any  other,  and  even  the 
weeds  that  rjave  stolen  entrance  are  looking  their  prettiest. 
"Weeding  hour  is  here;  do  not  delay  for  beauty's  sake," 
warns  the  wise  old  gardener.  "Little  weeds  grow  to  be 
usurpers,  little  sins  steal  life  away;  therefore  steel  your 
heart  against  them  all" — the  saucy  plantain  "soldiers" 
fringed  so  daintily  with  lace  adornments,  shepherd's  purse 
with  silver  bloom,  the  Indian  hemp  bent  on  conquest  like 
some  young  Samson,  the  encroaching  burdock  with  trop- 
ical foliage,  and  the  crab  grass  as  persistent  and  deter- 
mined as  a  social  climber. 

What  enemy  sowed  them  in  the  night?  What  a  foot- 
hold they  have  gained  in  moonlight  growing,  how  nobly 
constructed  to  dare  and  endure  and  to  preserve  their 
family  untarnished  by  degeneracy!  Yet  their  energy  is 
misplaced,  and  this  fine  quality,  so  admirable,  is  ban- 
ished from  the  garden  to  make  green  the  waste  places 
along  the  roadside  because  they  lack  sweetness  and  light. 
Mine  be  the  garden  of  fragrance,  of  color,  and  of  gentle 
flowers;  so  let's  to  the  weeding! 

The  confidence  of  the  birds  is  a  continual  wonder. 
They  have  made  themselves  at  home  without  once  asking 
"by  your  leave — if  you  please,"  just  as  if  they  had  read 


62         THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

by  a  secret  telepathy  that  we  were  willing  to  take  them 
into  partnership  if  they  would  only  abide  by  the  laws  of 
sharing  equally.  No  human  would  dare  to  assert  such 
airs  of  independence,  no  neighbor  presume  to  do  what 
they  exploit  in  perfect  freedom  from  the  conventions  of 
good  society. 

They  know  no  world  but  the  wide  world,  and  taking 
their  heads  from  under  their  wings  between  bat's  flight 
and  cock's  crow,  that  stillest  hour  before  the  dawn,  set 
about  singing  as  if  all  the  world  were  ready  to  get  up  and 
go  forth  rejoicing.  We  have  met  those  who  grumble  that 
the  country  is  too  noisy  with  its  songsters,  cocks,  and 
crickets.  But  hearken,  do  not  these  betray  the  misfor- 
tune of  ears  stopped  with  selfishness  and  love  of  the  pil- 
low after  day  has  lighted  her  candles'?  When  one  has 
tuned  one's  soul  to  music,  the  bird  chorus  is  a  pean  of  joy 
not  to  be  sung  to  instruments  of  strings  or  reeds,  but 
sacred  alone  to  the  feathered  creatures  beloved  by  St. 
Francis. 

Who,  looking  upon  budding  nature,  does  not  sigh  for 
the  old  days  of  faith,  when  art  grew  under  the  inspiration 
of  human  souls  and  became  the  flower  of  the  Renaissance 
to  glorify  the  gloomy  houses  of  worship,  to  give  reverence 
to  childhood  and  motherhood,  even  to  sanctify  the  singing 
of  birds'?  Blessed  be  St.  Francis  of  Assisi,  who  brought 
love,  human  and  divine,  to  gardens,  to  link  nature 
with  art.  No  more  gentle  touch  comes  to  us  down  the 


WHEN   SOUL   HELPS   FLESH     63 

centuries  from  that  strange  age  of  riotous  living  and  the 
making  of  saints  than  the  sermon  of  St.  Francis  to  the 
winged  creatures  that  came  to  the  convent  gate. 

Here  under  the  trees,  with  the  robins  overhead  making 
melody,  the  thrush  calling  from  the  shrubbery,  the  twit- 
ter of  the  nestlings  of  wrens  sounding  like  distant  flutes, 
may  we  read  in  the  old  book  that,  as  the  saint  had 
admonished  them  and  lifted  his  hand  in  blessing,  "those 
birds  began  all  of  them  to  open  their  beaks,  and  stretch 
their  necks,  and  spread  their  wings,  and  reverently  bend 
their  heads  down  to  the  ground,  and  by  their  acts  and  by 
their  songs  to  show  that  the  holy  Father  gave  them  joy 
exceeding  great.  And  S.  Francis  rejoiced  with  them,  and 
was  glad,  and  marveled  much  at  so  great  a  company  of 
birds  and  their  most  beautiful  diversity  and  their  good 
heed  and  sweet  friendliness,  for  the  which  cause  he  de- 
voutly praised  their  Creator  in  them. 

"At  the  last,  having  ended  the  preaching,  S.  Francis 
made  over  them  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  gave  them  leave 
to  go  away;  and  thereby  all  the  birds  with  wondrous  sing- 
ing rose  up  in  the  air ;  and  then,  in  the  fashion  of  the  cross 
that  S.  Francis  had  made  over  them,  divided  themselves 
into  four  parts ;  and  the  one  part  flew  toward  the  East  and 
the  other  toward  the  West,  and  the  other  toward  the 
South  and  the  fourth  toward  the  North,  and  each  flight 
went  on  its  way  singing  wondrous  songs." 

There  is  room  for  me  and  for  thee,  bird  neighbor, 


64         THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

though  tender  herbs  and  cherries  sweet  are  to  thy  liking. 
Go  thy  ways,  and  come  again. 

Over  yonder  flits  another  winged  intruder,  paying  ad- 
mission in  the  coin  of  beauty.  It  is  the  butterfly,  and 
with  him  comes  his  kindred  of  moths  and  other  bright, 
gauzy  creatures.  Truly  the  butterflies  among  the  blos- 
soms and  the  birdlings  in  the  flowering  thorn  are  appro- 
priate combinations  without  fault  in  poetry.  As  we  fling 
the  sparkling  jewel  weed  over  the  fence,  and  uproot  the 
sweet-smelling  catnip  trying  to  get  foothold  among  the 
mignonette,  the  same  fierce  feeling  of  savagery  rises  at 
the  sight  of  the  white  moths  waving  their  wings  above  the 
nasturtiums.  Well  we  know  that  not  a  royal  butterfly 
soars  in  from  the  meadow  but  is  bent  on  a  mission  to  take 
toll  or  ask  board  for  its  offspring. 

The  weeding  industry  may  cover  a  multitude  of  sins 
and  questions  which  are  debatable  when  there  is  argu- 
ment over  the  rights  of  possession.  To  whom  does  this 
garden  belong — to  catnip  and  its  confreres,  to  the  robins 
and  the  sparrows,  to  the  butterfly  kingdom,  or  to  a  wan- 
dering soul  beset  with  weeds  of  character  who  dreamed  of 
planting  virtues  and  reaping  heavenly  rewards? 


A   WATER   GARDEN    AT  TULANE   UNIVERSITY,   NEW   ORLEANS,   LOUISIANA 


AS  FANCY  FLIES 

MY  neighbor  has  a  funny  weathercock  in  the  guise  of 
a  jaunty  sailorman  who  balances  the  year  around 
on  a  frigate  sailing  without  making  a  single  port  in  the 
skyey  seas  above  the  gable  of  an  old  barn.  If  it  were  not 
for  the  gallant  sailorman  breasting  the  gales  with  never  a 
shadow  of  doubt  of  winds  that  blow,  hasting  in  the  teeth 
of  the  storm  with  the  defiant  courage  of  a  Flying  Dutch- 
man, the  outlook  from  that  home  window  would  be 
grievous  to  the  artistic  eye.  The  little  sailorman  saves 
the  day,  shaping  a  world  of  his  own  for  the  imagination. 

Often  in  August  a  morning-glory  vine  climbs  from  the 
hidden  garden  below  to  deck  his  ship  with  flowers,  while 
a  scarlet  runner  creeps  along  the  ridgepole  to  lay  its  blos- 
soms at  his  feet.  In  autumn  a  bittersweet  lifts  its  berries 
temptingly  above  the  shingles,  as  if  trying  to  lure  him 
from  his  course,  and  all  summer  the  birds,  paying  for 
lodging  in  melody,  rest  in  their  flight  upon  his  decks. 

At  last,  when  winter  snowdrifts  heap  about  the  lonely 

figure,  he  is  left  in  solitude  to  steer  with  the  wind;  and 

those  with  books  before  the  fireplace,  who  look  forth  to 

take  his  signals,  bless  the  little  sailorman  as  an  eye-trap 

65 


66         THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

never  failing  to  harbor  the  restless  thought  and  to  turn  it 
skyward  to  ways  of  faith  and  courage. 

So  truly  a  neighborhood  character  is  this  gayly  painted 
weather  vane  that  we  are  fain  to  believe  its  placing  was 
decreed  in  the  book  of  fate,  and  its  maker  rewarded  for 
his  deed.  The  gardeners  thereabouts  have  perfect  confi- 
dence in  his  predictions,  and  note  if  southerly  breezes  are 
warming  the  earth  for  sweet-pea  growing;  if  it  is  safe  to 
plant  delicate  seeds  and  to  take  storm  windows  from  the 
east  side  of  the  house.  Or  does  chance  ordain  that  the 
frigate  and  its  commander  turn  northwest,  then  the  trowel 
is  laid  in  the  tool  box  and  the  garden  hat  hung  behind  the 
door.  At  the  time  of  the  equinox  he  records  the  prevail- 
ing winds,  and  in  those  desperate  moments  before  a 
thunderstorm  his  good  ship  plunges  and  wavers  like  a 
rudderless  craft  in  the  grasp  of  the  sea. 

While  a  close  touch  of  sympathy  binds  us  to  the  for- 
tunes of  the  weather  vane — for  are  we  not  all  to  a  certain 
degree  weather  vanes  ourselves,  helpless  in  the  winds  of 
fate*? — the  sundial  affords  another  eye-trap  to  feed  the 
mind  upon,  keeping  us  in  touch  with  nature's  ways  of  the 
upper  air. 

Dear,  simple-minded  Gilbert  White  writes  that  "gen- 
tlemen who  have  outlets  might  contrive  to  make  ornament 
subservient  to  utility;  a  pleasing  eye-trap  might  also  con- 
tribute to  promote  science,  an  obelisk  in  a  garden  or  park 
might  be  both  an  embellishment  and  a  heliotrope." 


AS   FANCY   FLIES  67 

This  is  truly  a  pretty  fancy,  and  reason  enough  to  in- 
vite our  sculptor  friend  to  shape  two  obelisks,  works  of 
art,  to  serve  as  heliotropes,  one  for  winter  and  one  for 
summer,  giving  pleasure  to  those  delightful  souls  who 
never  cease  to  wonder  at  the  course  of  the  sun.  "The 
erection  of  the  former,"  writes  White,  "should,  if  pos- 
sible, be  placed  within  sight  of  some  window  in  the  com- 
mon sitting  parlor,  because  men  in  the  dead  season  of 
the  year  are  usually  within  doors  at  the  close  of  the  day ; 
while  that  for  the  latter  might  be  fixed  for  any  given  spot 
in  the  garden,  when  the  owner  might  contemplate,  on  a 
fine  summer's  evening,  the  utmost  extent  that  the  sun 
makes  to  the  northward  at  the  season  of  the  longest  days." 

And  in  the  same  garden,  let  us  add,  let  there  be  a 
rustic  seat  or  two,  beneath  a  sweet-smelling  shrub,  and 
within  hearing  of  running  water. 

There  is  room  for  a  sundial  in  the  smallest  garden,  as 
it  takes  but  little  space,  and  honeysuckle  or  roses  may 
embower  it  if  one  does  not  care  for  the  clinging  ivy.  The 
creeping  shadow  on  its  face  seems  to  link  the  effulgent 
glory  of  supernal  day  with  the  sunshine  in  our  own  little 
plot,  and  the  passing  hours  glide  away  more  sweetly 
when  vanishing  in  silence. 

A  vast  expanse  of  lawn  is  a  dreary  place  without  some 
note  of  play — an  eye-trap,  as  it  were,  to  catch  the  mind 
in  nets  of  beauty  or  pleasure-faring  thought.  A  circle  of 
daisies  will  change  such  a  lawn  to  a  fairyland,  a  bird 


68         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

table  entertain  songsters  unawares,  a  flock  of  feeding 
sheep  make  it  a  picture,  a  fountain  suggest  the  naiad  in 
its  rippling  waters;  and  the  sundial  and  heliotrope  count 
the  hours  of  sunshine. 

The  great  game  of  life  is  an  endless  round  of  tricks 
and  diversions,  of  which  garden-making  is  but  a  side 
play.  If  we  are  bold  enough  to  shake  off  the  shadows  of 
domineering  self  and  look  out  of  our  windows,  setting 
our  eye-traps,  the  play  takes  on  a  thrilling  interest. 
How  often  do  beauty  seekers  go  out  of  the  path  to  enjoy 
an  old  oak  draped  in  vines,  apparently  an  unconscious 
decoration  of  a  modest  yard?  Who  does  not  know  of  a 
trellis  purple  with  hanging  wistaria  in  June,  or  a  rose- 
wreathed  doorway,  or  an  outlook  from  some  window 
through  trees  that  have  been  trimmed  to  make  an  ex- 
tended view  over  the  hills  and  far  away*? 

Thoughtless  friend,  not  one  of  these  has  come  by 
chance.  All  are  designed  eye-traps;  and  you  do  your 
part  by  making  more  within  doors  by  hanging  a  picture, 
and  outdoors  by  planting  a  vine,  making  a  woodland 
shrine,  a  bank  for  the  wild  thyme,  or  a  nook  fit  for  fairies 
and  elves. 

Nature  is  a  veritable  enchantress,  and  willingly  lends 
her  art  to  a  few  little  tricks  to  inveigle  the  lagging 
dreams.  Vines  in  particular  are  her  favorite  means  of 
creating  surprises.  It  would  be  fair  to  call  them  the 
"wild  highlanders"  of  flower  folk,  wayward,  usurping, 


x^, 
mm$$; 


AS   FANCY   FLIES  69 

usually  having  their  own  way,  and  not  to  be  depended 
on  to  do  as  you  wish. 

The  gentle  gardener  never  lacks  variety  in  her  vines, 
nor  do  any  other  plants  better  repay  for  care,  weaving 
fragrant  bowers,  covering  walls,  hiding  unsightly  places, 
and  taking  no  space  at  all  when  trained  up  the  corner  of 
the  house  or  over  a  dead  tree.  Fortunately  the  roots  are 
to  be  bought  and  will  live  for  years  if  granted  winter 
protection.  The  wild  grape  is  to  be  encouraged;  and 
where  else  is  there  such  sweetness?  The  purple  and 
white  clematis,  the  sweet  honeysuckle,  Dutchman's  pipe, 
trumpet  creeper,  and  rambling  roses,  each  and  all  are 
just  waiting  the  chance  to  make  an  eye-trap. 

"When  thou  dost  a  rose  behold,  say  I  send  it  greet- 
ing," sang  the  poet  Heine  in  an  immortal  song  of  spring; 
that,  with  another  charming  Lied,  "In  wondrous  lovely 
month  of  May,  when  all  the  buds  are  opening,"  has  in- 
spired melody  in  music  makers  since  his  time,  and  stirs 
the  hearts  of  singers  everywhere  in  tune  with  nature.  At 
this  hour,  when  jocund  day  is  smiling  over  fields  and 
garden,  if  we  listen  we  can  hear  songs  of  spring  echoing 
through  the  groves  and  tinkling  among  the  flower  bells 
and  from  the  trumpets  of  lilacs  and  sweet  honeysuckles. 

Joy  shines  in  the  faces  of  the  quaint  velvet-bonneted 
pansies,  a  finer  fragrance  exhales  from  the  blushing  crab- 
apple  blossoms  as  we  pay  reverence  to  their  beauty.  In 
the  woodland  the  atmosphere  is  alive  with  bird  twitters, 


70         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

and  soft  whisperings  of  the  breeze  celebrate  the  festival 
of  purple  phlox,  wake-robins,  buttercups,  violets,  and 
radiant  marsh  marigolds  reflecting  purest  sunshine  where 
the  brook  winds  into  the  open  meadows. 

Sing,  one  and  all,  and  send  greeting  in  this  "wondrous 
lovely  month  of  May,"  when  the  human  heart  receives 
once  more  celestial  benediction  from  the  skies,  and  can 
swing  its  censer  with  the  incense  of  love  and  adoration 
for  all  thoughts  bright  and  beautiful,  and  none  dares  say 
it  nay. 

Look  out  of  thy  window  and  abroad.  What  is  there 
within  eye  reach  to  meet  in  kindly  greeting  beyond  the 
sprouts  in  your  flower  beds?  What  torch  have  you 
kindled  to  lighten  a  flame  at  your  neighbor's  shrine? 
You  need  not  journey  to  Lassa  to  meet  curiosity  and 
strange  folk,  nor  need  you  draw  money  from  the  bank  to 
buy  a  tonic  to  warm  hearts. 

There  is  a  little  crooked  fence,  maybe,  near  the  back 
door,  separating  your  lot  from  the  weedy  wilderness  of 
the  busy  person  hard  by.  Imagine  her  delight  when  she 
looks  out  of  her  north  window  some  morning  and  sees  a 
barren  line  of  boards  covered  with  climbing  nasturtiums 
unfurling  chalices  of  ruddy  orange  and  gold  amid  set- 
tings of  malachite. 

If  by  chance  a  passer-by  takes  his  privilege  of  cutting 
blooms  creeping  through  the  palings,  what  matter?  You 
have  sent  a  greeting  of  flowers  to  some  one  who  wanted 


AS   FANCY   FLIES  71 

them;  and  alas!  if  it  is  permitted  to  turn  to  shadows  for 
a  brief  minute,  how  often  do  we  send  flowers  where  they 
are  not  greeted,  because  that  soul  has  not  awakened  to 
their  tender  beauty. 

I  should  like  to  cherish  the  faith  that  there  was  a 
subtle  kinship  between  the  flower  lover  and  the  flower; 
and  surely  if  one  has  known  many  gardens  he  must  be- 
lieve that  flowers  respond  to  a  spiritual  greeting  and 
fade  under  cold  neglect,  though  conditions  of  earth  and 
air  seem  to  be  proper. 

Our  own  little  garden  world  being  weeded  and  doing 
its  best  at  this  high  tide  of  the  year,  growing  with  all  its 
might,  one  may  take  thought  if  the  flowers  of  tradition 
have  had  due  reward.  There  are  the  Johnny- jump-ups, 
the  common  daisy,  primroses,  cowslips,  stocks,  and  fox- 
gloves, the  flowers  of  the  story  book  filling  the  dream 
gardens. 

The  Johnny-jump-ups,  once  invited  within  .your  gate, 
remain  evermore,  and  hard  must  be  the  heart  that  would 
turn  them  out  to  make  room  for  an  exotic  or  strange 
annual.  Plant  them  where  there  will  be  little  change  of 
beds,  and  if  a  fence  is  near  they  will  throw  seeds  through 
the  opening;  and  some  day  you  will  see  your  neighbor 
bending  over  them  with  delight,  or  hear  the  shouts  of 
children  coming  home  from  school  who  have  discovered 
a  saucy  Johnny  keeping  company  with  a  bouncing  Bet 
long  since  escaped  from  gardens.,  and  taking  to  the  road 


72         THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

like  any  Romany  lass  born  to  the  camp  fire  and  tent 
under  the  stars. 

Primroses  are  shyer  folk  that  need  shelter,  and  in  a 
protected  corner,  with  sweet-scented  stocks,  hose-in-hose, 
and  cowslips,  will  return  with  the  bluebirds  in  spring 
and  wait  for  the  foxgloves  to  nod  above  them  in  June. 
The  pinks  open  many  a  lovely  old-fashioned  blossom, 
transplanting  with  grateful  compliments. 

It  is  pleasant  to  remember  that  all  these  dear  old- 
fashioned  flowers  are  travelers,  and  have  girdled  the 
earth  in  their  times.  The  primulas  are  natives  from  the 
rock  heights  of  the  Himalayas  and  distant  Siberia, 
the  Johnny- jump-ups  climb  to  the  Alpine  snow-line  of 
the  Jungfrau,  and  the  pinks  were  bred  on  the  margins  of 
glaciers  from  Norway  to  the  Pyrenees  and  the  head- 
waters of  the  Amoor. 

They  are  citizens  of  the  world,  scattering  beauty  and 
flowers  along  common  ways,  and  why  not  help  them  on 
their  ceaseless  march  by  sowing  broadcast  their  seeds  in 
waste  places,  with  more  of  the  pink-tipped  and  wild  field 
daisy,  the  Shirley  poppy,  the  sweet  William  and  bouncing 
Bet1? 

None  of  these  ask  for  luxury,  only  craving  permission 
to  root,  and  paying  toll  in  blossoms  that,  plucked,  bring 
twice  as  many  later  on.  Now  and  then  in  some  out-of- 
the-way  corner  of  the  world  we  meet  a  member  of  the 
brotherhood  of  flower  missioners  who  looks  beyond  his 


AS   FANCY   FLIES  73 

own  plantations.  When  no  one  is  spying  he  plants  a 
vine,  a  traveler's  joy,  a  trumpet  creeper,  or  a  wild  grape 
along  a  fence  to  adorn  the  road  and  give  pleasure  to  all 
that  pass  thereby,  especially  to  those  on  whom  the 
world's  work  bears  heavily,  leaving  no  time  for  garden- 
ing, but  whose  hearts  are  aching  with  stifled  longings  for 
beauty  and  natural  things. 

It  is  the  generous  act  of  a  minute  to  plant  a  wayside 
flower,  and  the  sin  of  the  weed-grown  waste  is  on  our 
heads  if  we  neglect  it  when  for  a  farthing  and  a  thought 
we  might  make  it  a  beauty  spot. 

It  is  the  fulfillment  of  a  loyal  natuie  to  treasure  a  love 
for  old-fashioned  flowers.  If  childhood  has  left  any 
pictures  of  youthful  fairyland,  there  is  sure  to  be  some 
lore  of  fragrant  May  pinks  and  flowers  in  an  old  garden 
which  has  woven  a  thread  enriching  memory  in  company 
with  strains  of  old  songs  and  snatches  of  'verse  more 
beautiful  than  any  that  we  have  known  in  later  years. 

Perhaps  the  garden  was  a  clover  field  in  June,  a  hill- 
side white  with  daisies,  a  rock  bed  where  the  red  colum- 
bine swung  its  trumpets,  or  a  meadow  with  shooting 
stars;  and  this,  linked  to  the  little  beds  of  posies  we 
called  our  own,  made  a  haunt  never  to  be  forgotten. 
Childhood  is  a  precious  season,  eager  and  hopeful,  and 
he  who  may  instill  flower  love  in  children  gives  a  magic 
gift  and  unlocks  a  sympathy  with  nature  beyond  the 
effacing  hand  of  time  or  fortune. 


THE  HIGH  TIDE  OF  JOY 

'TT'S  June,  dear  June;  now  God  be  praised  for 
JL  June";  June,  brooding  above  the  timeworn  earth, 
enticing  to  life  the  glory  of  summertide;  June,  of  sap- 
phire skies  and  golden  sunlight;  June,  of  fragrant,  flower- 
scented  nights;  June,  gypsying  in  the  fields  afire  with 
scarlet  poppies,  garlanding  the  marshes  with  iris,  painting 
blushes  on  the  peonies  of  the  gardens,  and  waking  the 
songs  of  birdland  in  ferny  brake,  in  thickets,  and  in  tree 
top!  What  to  compare  with  June?  In  what  season  of 
the  year  is  life  more  worth  the  living? 

Yesterday  the  columbines  were  supreme  in  the  borders ; 
they  swung  their  trumpets  in  the  breeze.  And  had  our 
ears  been  tuned  to  such  fairy  music  we  would  have 
known  that  to-day  would  be  the  royal  pageant  of  the 
iris.  Some  time  in  the  early  morning  the  bladed  swords 
guarding  their  loveliness  were  withdrawn,  and  now  we 
may  behold  them  like  a  winged  angelic  host  arrayed  in 
the  palest  silver,  pearly  white,  and  the  purple  of  kings, 
melting  into  the  faint  harmonies  of  rainbow  tints  that 
might  have  been  reflected  from  the  foamy  crest  of  an 
ocean  wave. 

74 


THE   HIGH    TIDE   OF   JOY       75 

A  gardener  born  to  his  honors  should  be  capable  of 
generous  friendships  and  endowed  with  a  heart  over- 
flowing with  religious  devotion.  As  a  people  we  are  held 
fast  to  an  old  Saxon  trait  that  forbids  showing  our  emo- 
tions and  letting  their  warmth  radiate  kindness  on  all 
about  us,  but  to  the  gardener  comes  the  privilege  of  love 
and  worship  for  those  within  the  circle  of  his  horizon. 

Think  of  the  wanderer  this  morning  who  is  out  before 
the  breeze  has  stolen  the  dew  from  the  daisies  on  the 
lawn,  prostrating  his  soul  before  the  effulgence  of  the 
rising  sun  with  the  faith  of  a  fire  worshiper  of  the  source 
of  light  and  life.  He  turns  to  the  trinity  symbolized  in 
the  iris,  the  fatherhood,  brotherhood,  and  world-wide 
sympathy  for  struggling  life,  and  partakes  of  the  joy  of 
hope  and  faith  in  an  eternal  purpose  breathed  from  every 
flower  uplifted  toward  the  skies. 

This  is  the  true  spirit  of  the  devotional  impulse  of 
adoration  and  thanksgiving,  beneath  the  dome  of  the 
skies,  with  nature's  own  incense  filling  the  air  in  the 
great  silence  of  the  out  of  doors.  The  lily  family  alone 
of  all  the  flower  sisterhood  has  the  right  to  provoke  this 
feeling. 

That  grand  old  scientist,  Professor  Ernst  Haeckel, 
speaks  of  the  iris  as  endowed  with  "sensible  loveliness." 
Dull  must  we  be  if  this  mystery  fails  us,  and  no  sym- 
pathy rises  in  the  heart  as  we  approach  a  stately  company 
of  these  queenly  flowers,  which  are  so  fragile,  so  pure, 


76         THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

that  humility  oppresses  us  with  a  sense  of  unfitness  in 
the  presense  of  such  perfection. 

The  rose  is  the  queen  of  the  garden,  voluptuous,  ap- 
pealing to  the  sense,  but  queen  above  queens,  a  Mona 
Lisa,  a  Lady  Godiva,  knowing  life,  knowing  love  and 
sorrow,  reigns  the  iris,  a  blossom  not  for  the  plucking, 
but  to  be  planted  at  the  foot  of  ruined  altars,  to  remind 
that  faith  may  rise  triumphant  on  unsullied  wings. 

Another  devotee  of  the  iris  said  that  when  a  group 
chanced  to  meet  his  eye  in  an  English  garden  he  was 
reminded  of  the  gladiatorial  hall,  "Morituri  te  salutant" 
and  Eden  Phillpotts  believes  that  they  are  to  the  garden 
what  Chopin  is  to  music,  "the  most  wonderful,  beautiful, 
and  saddest  of  flowers;  we  sometimes  miss  the  spirit  in 
them,  while  overjoyed  or  overawed  by  the  substance." 

If  you  do  not  know  the  iris  you  have  missed  something 
in  life.  The  garden  books  have  not  so  much  to  say  about 
the  family  as  they  should,  being  occupied  with  the  com- 
moners, which  may  be  met  on  more  equal  terms.  Why 
we  should  shrink  at  approaching  superiors  I  do  not  know, 
but  if  by  chance  a  flower  or  a  friend  unveils  mystery,  in 
a  moment  we  straightway  seek  out  folk  of  our  own  kind 
whom  we  are  sure  of,  and  do  not  go  forward  on  our 
knees  and  lift  the  veil  to  partake  of  the  blessing  of  a 
nobler  presence  and  the  "benediction  of  the  higher 
mood." 

The  superb  varieties  of  iris  grow  as  easily  as  their 


THE   HIGH    TIDE    OF   JOY       77 

relative  wildings,  which  we  seek  in  the  swamps  and  plant 
in  the  marshy  spots  of  our  grounds.  If  one  has  reached 
that  stage  of  years  when  his  consciousness  warns  him 
that  it  is  time  to  choose  companionship  to  solace  the  hour 
when  the  race  is  to  the  swift,  a  garden  inclosure  to  shut 
off  the  clamor  of  battle  that  tires  the  ears,  then  hunt  for 
a  favored  spot  that  will  make  a  bower  of  green  in  June. 

Then  with  grave  thought  of  what  may  fill  your  soul 
in  the  glory  of  June,  choose  iris  susiana,  the  great  Turkey 
fleur-de-lis,  the  mourning  flower  of  the  Japanese,  "that 
I  think  in  the  whole  compasse  of  nature's  store  there  is 
not  a  more  patheticall,"  writes  quaint  John  Parkinson, 
and  to  the  queen  susiana  present  the  king  loreteti,  the 
emblem  of  life  and  dawn  in  his  brilliance  and  purity. 

As  soon  as  the  frost  withdraws  from  the  earth  the 
irises  show  the  tips  of  their  green  blades,  which  advance 
in  regular  order  from  the  underworld  until  a  solid 
phalanx  fills  the  space  allotted  to  them.  Nothing  so 
cleanly  or  shining  or  strong  as  this  splendid  bed  of  foli- 
age, making  ready  for  the  culmination  of  its  growing. 
On  the  morning  appointed  it  bursts  upon  the  eye  in  a 
splendor  of  purples,  lavenders,  violets,  and  yellows  that 
pales  the  sunshine. 

The  honey  scent  once  breathed  is  unforgotten  among 
the  experiences  enriching  a  lifetime,  and  as  the  iris 
passion  grows  upon  us,  and  more  and  more  of  the  lovely 
species  from  China,  Japan,  Italy,  or  the  secluded  vales 


78         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

of  the  Himalayas  come  to  dwell  in  our  gardens,  we  may 
take  comfort  -in  the  thought  that  we  are  gathering  the 
rarest  offerings  of  June,  the  gladdest  of  all  seasons  to 
him  who  hath  the  secret  learned  "to  mix  his  blood  with 
sunshine  and  to  take  the  wind  into  his  pulses." 

In  mid-June  comes  an  hour  when  garden  color  weaves 
a  tapestried  background  for  the  parade  of  the  Oriental 
poppies.  Matchless  in  their  beauty  of  scarlet  and  black, 
bursting  their  buds  in  the  gray  of  a  dawn,  vanishing  in 
the  purple  of  dusk,  it  is  well  worth  waiting  a  year  to 
greet  them  as  they  flit  across  the  threshold  of  summer  in 
their  brief  span  of  life. 

If  you  know  the  poppies'  haunts  haste  to  seek  them 
out, — the  odalisk,  the  gypsy  queen,  in  fluted  petticoats 
of  red,  flaunting  their  graces  above  fringes  of  silver 
green,  passing  languorously  in  a  dance  they  learned  long 
ago  on  the  plain  of  Ind.  They  turn  toward  us  with  a 
look  of  mystery,  and  sway  upon  their  stems  as  a  Romany 
maid  upon  her  dancing  feet. 

Why  do  they  not  speak1?  The  violet  exchanges  shy 
confidences  in  perfume,  the  tiger  lily  confesses  volumes 
in  sphinxlike  wisdom,  and  we  are  loath  to  let  the  Oriental 
poppy  escape  without  a  hearing;  its  attitude  is  so  elo* 
quent,  its  personality  so  vivid  and  glowing,  and  it  nods 
as  if  it  knew  the  secret  of  the  ages. 

Poppy  friendship  is  a  curious  sentiment;  it  promises 
much,  and  when  about  to  unfold  its  passion  withdraws, 


THE   HIGH   TIDE   OF   JOY       79 

leaving  behind  it  a  warmth  of  devotion  to  its  beauty  and 
a  tender  sorrow  that  more  of  it  was  not  ours.  It  is  pleas- 
ant to  imagine  it  has  a  place  in  the  pretty  theory  of  the 
transmigration  of  souls,  wherein  man's  imperfect  aspira- 
tions unfold  by  slow  degrees  from  the  nature  of  the 
insensate  clod,  gaining  in  spiritual  loveliness  through  a 
cycle  of  many  lives. 

Why  not,  after  wasting  brute  passion  in  the  tiger, 
exhausting  foolish  loquacity  in  the  parrot,  soaring 
toward  unattainable  heights  with  the  eagle,  trying  many 
paths  to  knowledge  in  the  devious  ways  open  to  myriad- 
minded  man — why  not  go  a  step  farther  and  rest  for  a 
time  to  "climb  to  a  soul  in  grass  and  flowers"? 

You,  perchance,  in  your  pride,  the  tulip  of  the  spring; 
your  neighbor,  the  rose  of  a  hundred  leaves,  and  she  with 
a  desire  for  sunlight  and  color,  an  Oriental  poppy,  to 
dazzle  the  world  with  a  spectacle  of  the  garden  afire,  to 
shed  beauty  on  the  wind,  and  to  take  flight  to  other 
worlds  when  June  has  reached  her  perfect  days. 

Like  the  majority  of  good  people  we  overlook  in  the 
crowds,  day  after  day,  whose  virtues  are  not  known  until 
they  do  something  to  separate  themselves  from  their 
fellows,  there  are  many  reliable  garden  flowers  escaping 
the  recognition  of  the  passer-by  until  they  reach  the 
great  events  of  their  existence  and  astonish  his  eyes  with 
blossoms,  and  he  beholds  an  old  friend  before  him. 

Not  so  with  the  poppy  tribes,  which  have  an  individ- 


8o         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

uality  so  marked  that  the  garden  weeder  does  not  mis- 
take them  for  waifs  and  strays  when  weeds  are  making 
a  strong  fight  for  possession.  The  infant  poppy  pushes 
a  quaint  little  rosette  of  pale  green  leaves  to  the  surface, 
the  field  poppy  showing  smooth  texture  and  the  Oriental 
one  roughly  furred.  And  as  the  warm  rains  fall  they 
hold  fast  to  this  personal  trait,  standing  alone  in  a  blue- 
white  among  the  somber  foliage  of  foxgloves,  cam- 
panulas, queens  of  the  meadow,  Canterbury  bells,  and 
larkspur. 

All  are  ready  for  bloom  at  the  midday  of  June,  but 
nature  seems  aware  it  is  the  triumph  of  the  Oriental 
poppy,  and  the  unfurling  buds  of  campanulas  show  dull 
blues,  the  foxgloves  old  rose  and  white,  and  other  per- 
ennials join  with  pale  yellows,  bronze,  and  varied  greens, 
as  if  agreed  on  harmony  to  create  the  scheme  of  richest 
cashmere  color. 

Then  there  dawns  a  rare  day  when  the  Oriental  pop- 
pies spread  their  blood-red  petals  of  crepy  delicacy, 
opening  wide  their  dusky  purple  hearts,  and  exhaling 
heavy,  slumber-compelling  odors,  breathing  the  spell  of 
the  enchantment  of  summer.  It  is  a  triumph  among 
nature's  surprises. 

The  little  field  poppies,  whose  torches  gleam  in  the 
yellow  harvest  fields  and  keep  aflame  all  summer,  are  the 
broomstick  witches  of  the  wayside.  There  are  dull  days 
when  I  feel  that  it  would  pay  "to  go  ten  thousand 


THE   HIGH   TIDE   OF   JOY       81 

miles,"  as  the  old  song  has  it,  to  look  upon  a  hillside 
abloom  with  scarlet  poppies.  And  when  the  sun  rays  are 
long  and  golden,  lighting  up  the  hidden  fires  in  the 
poppy  cups,  the  nodding  blooms  in  the  country  lanes 
seem  like  the  red  kerchiefs  on  the  heads  of  shy  gypsy 
maids  hasting  to  keep  a  tryst. 

The  garden  log  book  records  that  the  blackbirds  sing 
in  the  linden  trees,  and  weeds  and  white  butterflies  share 
joy  and  sorrow  with  the  festival  of  the  Oriental  poppies. 
Butterfly  sport  seems  a  little  business;  not  so  little,  how- 
ever, if  you  divide  your  heart  between  Oriental  poppies 
and  nasturtiums  when  the  moon  shines  on  midsummer 
nights.  The  swashbuckling  cavaliers  of  the  poppy  world 
hide  a  bitterness  in  their  veins  to  forbid  salad-loving 
caterpillars,  and  even  little  flies  and  ants  keep  their  dis- 
tance. But  the  gentle  nasturtium  falls  victim  if  no 
butterfly  net  is  out  to  capture  white  butterflies  and 
moths,  and  a  "prevention  of  cruelty  to  animals  member" 
makes  up  her  mind  that  it  is  a  case  of  the  fittest  to 
survive. 

Weed  pulling  must  alternate  with  butterfly  hunting 
until  plants  are  big  enough  to  shadow  the  earth,  and 
then  it  must  be  butterfly  hunting  until  frost.  Both  exer- 
cises are  admirable  to  play  upon  muscles  and  temper, 
and  more  wholesome  discipline  than  many  a  medieval 
penance  we  might  name. 

The  whistle  of  the  blackbird  in  the  linden,  celebrating 


82         THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

the  arrival  of  his  first  family  in  the  nest  and  doing 
nothing  in  particular  to  help  it  along,  is  an  exasperating 
neighbor.  If  only  we  knew  how  to  train  robins  and 
blackbirds  to  feast  on  nasturtium  caterpillars  instead  of 
boring  the  turf  for  earthworms,  we  would  acquire  ever- 
lasting fame  in  the  garden  books. 

The  nasturtium  friend  has  two  duties  at  his  hand — 
butterfly  and  moth  hunts  and  green-caterpillar  catching. 
After  all,  why  grumble?  All  is  in  the  day's  work,  and 
the  nasturtium  border  in  cloth  of  gold,  dewy,  pungent, 
and  beyond  compare,  is  a  reward.  The  south  wind 
carries  the  fragrance  of  the  linden  bloom  down  to  the 
weeding  woman;  the  blackbird  trills  again  that  note  of 
ravishing  sweetness.  It  is  the  old  tale  of  work  and  play, 
and  to  keep  at  it  in  good  spirits  is  to  make  ready  for  the 
next  transformation  of  June. 


THE  ODORS  OF  ARABY 

A  JOURNEY  into  the  walled  heart  of  a  town,  a 
night  spent  where  every  vista  leads  to  chimneys  or 
to  the  glittering  allurements  of  city  amusements, -is  most 
salutary  when  the  demon  of  restlessness  stays  the  hand 
from  weeding.  Who  can  measure  the  gladness  of  the  re- 
turn "?  Who  can  picture  that  longing  to  be  great  enough 
to  command,  and  rich  enough  to  create,  hanging  gardens, 
wooded  squares,  and  flowery  terraces  here  and  there  and 
everywhere  in  the  labyrinth  of  houses'? 

Praying  that  an  enlightened  age  may  hasten  the  day 
when  it  shall  be  so,  let  us  hasten  to  find  a  seat  on  the 
shaded  side  of  the  car  whence  the  view  will  open  on  the 
park  where  the  avenues  of  catalpas  are  holding  aloft 
their  bouquets  of  blossoms,  and  the  lindens  are  opening 
their  waxen  bells  for  the  honeybees.  Along  the  way  is  a 
clover  field,  small  clumps  of  blushing  Alsatian  clover, 
acting  as  forerunners  to  the  acres  of  white  across  the 
road,  where  cattle  stand  knee  deep  in  the  perfection  of 
June  pastures. 

And  then  comes  "improved  property."  Why  "im- 
proved," we  wonder,  with  suburban  homes  touching 
83 


84         THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

elbows  in  twenty-five-foot  lots,  when  the  open  country 
stretches  free  all  around,  and  there  might  have  been 
space  for  orchards  and  gardens'?  Will  there  not  be  a 
great  awakening  for  builders  of  that  kind  some  day, 
when  they  see  the  error  of  their  ways  2 

The  thought  gathered  like  a  dark  cloud  blown  across 
a  clear  sky,  and  vanished  before  a  whiff  of  fragrant  rose- 
mary rising  from  the  blossoming  branches  which  a  slim 
little  woman  in  black,  who  had  just  entered  the  car,  had 
knotted  in  the  corner  of  her  handkerchief  and  was  now 
pressing  against  her  cheek.  The  atmosphere  was  re- 
freshed, and  the  landscape  seemed  to  unveil  another 
garden  where  the  pungent  smell  of  box  trees  arose  from 
an  inclosing  hedge  of  glossy  dark  foliage,  where  myrtle 
covered  a  terrace  which  sloped  down  to  an  herb  garden 
with  its  company  of  sweet-scented  plants. 

"Who  loves  his  garden  still  keeps  his  Eden" — for  him 
paradise  is  regained  very  truly,  as  love  is  a  generous  re- 
vealer,  bestowing  a  precious  gift  of  insight ;  and  the  lover 
of  gardens  may  conjure  them  from  the  past  or  plant 
them  wherever  an  ounce  of  earth  takes  hold  in  a  crannied 
wall. 

As  the  car  sped  on,  the  city  smoke  had  settled  on  the 
distant  horizon  and  the  summer  fields  were  making 
nature's  gardens.  It  is  wild-rose  time,  garlanding  the 
prairies  and  forgotten  byways;  the  spiderwort  in  in- 
imitable purple  set  among  leaves  of  silvered  green  is 


THE    ODORS    OF   ARABY         85 

spreading  its  beauty  in  the  marshy  hollows,  and  amid  the 
ripened  grasses  are  little  colonies  of  boneset,  everlasting, 
horsetail,  and  the  first  black-eyed  Susans. 

While  this  beauty  caught  the  eye  it  required  no  un- 
common self-control  to  refrain  from  talking  to  the  slim 
young  woman  in  black  who  carried  the  sprig  of  rosemary. 
Would  it  have  been  an  intrusion*?  A  short,  fierce  con- 
flict raged  between  the  formal  sense  of  propriety  forbid- 
ding converse  with  strangers  and  the  friendly  impulse  to 
exchange  comment  on  the  summer  pageant  with  one  who 
also  liked  rosemary.  But  the  rare  moment  fled;  before 
the  shell  of  self  was  broken  she  had  left  the  car,  and  a 
lonely  little  woman  in  black  was  taking  her  path  down 
the  dusty  road  between  the  fields  of  clover.  Who  knows 
but  that  we  missed  entertaining  an  angel  unawares! 

Back  within  our  garden  gate  we  speedily  greet  our 
own  rosemary  tree.  No  one  can  ever  accuse  a  devoted 
gardener  of  gardening  for  appearances.  When  this  hap- 
pens by  chance  the  garden  tells  on  its  maker  in  unmis- 
takable terms.  It  is  artificial,  it  is  empty  of  sentiment, 
and  it  is  a  fictitious  thing.  The  true  garden  is  the 
comfort  of  those  who  hunger  for  friends.  Just  as  there 
are  book  friends  and  picture  friends  for  our  moods,  so 
there  are  flower  friends.  In  as  fine  a  sense  they  are  as 
dear  and,  it  may  be,  as  consoling  as  you  who  are  best 
beloved  among  the  human  friends  that  walk  the  earth. 

Every  child  remembers  the  flower  of  his  youth,  and  to 


86         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

many  a  one  the  sweet  Williams  have  been  the  first. 
Here  they  are  to-day  in  crimson,  sanguine,  and  white. 
Stately  and  fringed,  they  have  come  for  their  summer 
visit.  It  was  a  happy  thought  to  set  them  where  they 
made  a  little  hedge  separating  the  herb  garden  from  the 
posies.  Long  ago  the  old-man,  lavender,  thyme,  and 
balm  had  a  place  among  the  hardy  annuals  in  hopes  that 
observant  guests  would  come  upon  them  unawares  and 
be  glad.  And  then  followed  the  discovery  that  few  take 
pleasure  in  odors,  and  fewer  are  observant;  and  the 
lemon  verbena  looked  an  alien,  the  old-man  became 
shabby  from  the  nippings  of  careless  fingers,  and  the 
balm  languished  disconsolate. 

And  so  a  sunny  corner  behind  the  sweet  Williams  was 
planted  for  sweet  odors  of  old  days.  It  seems  that  the 
talent  to  enjoy  fragrance  is  after  all  a  gift  of  highly 
developed  senses.  Even  more  than  the  sense  of  taste  the 
nostrils  have  the  power  to  touch  the  springs  of  a  forgot- 
ten past,  and  to  one  a  crushed  calycanthus  bud  brings 
the  picture  of  a  Pennsylvania  hamlet  with  luxuriant 
gardens  back  of  green-shuttered  houses  nestled  deep  in 
the  Cumberland  Valley;  a  dried  sweetbrier  is  the  magic 
of  a  romance;  a  spray  of  lemon  verbena  conjures  memory 
of  a  tiny  red  prayer  book,  a  high-backed  pew,  and  long, 
long  sermons  while  the  birds  were  singing  in  the  weeping 
willows  overhanging  moss-grown  gravestones  beyond  the 
church  door. 


THE   ODORS   OF   ARABY         87 

In  the  little  herb  garden  behind  the  sweet  Williams 
the  rosemary  spreads  its  branches  next  a  graceful  rue,  the 
pennyroyal  and  fennel  are  side  by  side,  the  old-man  is 
sacred  from  desecrating  hands,  and  thyme  grown  from 
seeds  sent  from  Hymettus  invites  American  bees.  A 
silver  sage,  the  purple-tipped  lavender,  and  sturdy  catnip 
make  as  pretty  a  group  as  any  in  the  flower  garden,  and 
the  mints,  savory,  basil,  and  balm  have  each  a  place. 

The  perfumes  arising  from  the  peonies,  iris,  and 
syringas  culminate  in  the  roses.  Every  blossom,  how- 
ever humble — mignonettes,  verbenas,  alyssum — makes 
an  offering  filling  the  nights  and  the  days  with  a  fore- 
taste of  scented  breezes  of  a  fairer  world  than  ours.  Go 
forth  into  the  twilight  and  listen  and  wait  in  the  stillness 
of  the  eve,  and  mayhap,  like  Socrates,  you  will  fall  upon 
your  knees  and  pray:  "O  Pan,  and  all  ye  gods  that 
haunt  this  place,  give  me  beauty  in  the  inward  man" — 
nor  dare  there  be  any  who  will  accuse  you  of  irreverence 
to  any  in  creation's  plan. 

It  hints  of  self-denial  to  steal  a  morning  from  the  days 
appointed  for  roaming  the  clover  fields  to  spend  it  on  a 
shady  porch  filling  rose  jars  with  dried  leaves  to  sweeten 
the  atmosphere  of  January.  If  in  summer  the  senses  are 
elevated  to  the  seventh  heaven  of  delight  by  the  odors 
wafted  from  hay  fields,  in  winter  they  rise  to  an  exhil- 
aration of  exquisite  pleasure  upon  entering  a  rose-scented 
room. 


88         THE    JOY    OF    GARDENS 

The  magic  of  the  rose,  its  thousand  legends,  answer  to 
the  spell  cast  by  the  aroma  of  an  opened  rose  jar  diffus- 
ing its  presence  like  the  shade  of  a  beneficent  genie  from 
the  land  of  Aladdin.  Its  memories  give  us  privilege  to 
moralize  as  we  sift  our  rose  leaves  and  spices.  We  are 
reminded  that  it  is  well  to  snatch  sunny  moments  from 
the  pleasure  hunt  of  youth,  and  fill  rose  jars  of  remi- 
niscences to  make  brightness  in  the  winter  of  life.  Ah, 
but  who  can  think  of  winter  when  the  wild  rose  is 
abloom*?  Away  with  all  shadows  set  in  motion  to  a 
minor  strain  by  the  hour  among  slugs  and  red  spiders ! 

The  old  spell  of  the  rose  is  upon  us.  It  is  the  same 
weaving  of  wizardry  that  gives  dreams  of  the  Persian 
gardens,  where  nightingales  and  dewdrops  sing  and  die 
for  the  love  of  a  rose.  It  is  this  perfume  that  over- 
powers the  brain,  and  the  sense  goes  meandering  in  the 
mysterious  ways  of  poesy.  Close  your  eyes,  and  with  the 
rose  close  to  your  lips  yield  to  the  charm. 

It  is  all  yours,  this  wealth  of  the  world — the  glamour 
of  moonlight,  the  tinkle  of  a  fountain,  the  song  of  a 
nightingale  above  the  gentle  twanging  of  a  lute,  and  the 
fragrance  of  rose  gardens  in  that  far-away  land  of 
dreams — be  it  Persia  or  that  one  little  garden  hidden 
cherished  in  the  memories  of  your  heart. 

All  this  with  the  incense  that  rises  from  the  crushed 
petals  on  the  altar  of  the  rose ! 

Let    us    bury    behind    the    books    that    unblushing 


THE    ODORS    OF   ARABY         89 

romancer,  the  rose  catalogue,  which  deceived  us  into 
believing  that  the  prairies  of  the  Illini  might  entertain 
hopes  of  bowers  such  as  the  talebearers  told  of  the  East. 
Led  by  their  glamour  we  saw  the  beauty  of  lands  of  sun- 
shine, of  vales  of  Cashmere,  and  Persian  gardens  where 
roses  flourished  of  their  own  sweet  will  and  scattered 
their  fragrance  to  the  thrumming  of  lutes,  the  trills  of 
nightingales,  and  the  quatrains  of  Omar. 

The  decalogue  has  nothing  against  the  sin  of  desire  to 
be  a  "rosarian,"  and  a  sense  of  justice  rebels  at  the 
thought  of  that  night  when  a  rose  catalogue  set  the  brain 
afire  and  put  wisdom  in  the  closet  while  opening  the 
pocketbook.  Of  course  the  cherished  roses  have  lived — 
just  lived — to  be  a  battlefield  for  microbes  unseen,  slugs 
and  worms  too  evident.  The  crimson  rambler  rambles 
cheerfully,  the  rugosa  is  spreading  its  tropical  foliage. 
They  leave  nothing  to  be  desired  as  far  as  their  duties  are 
concerned;  but  ask  not  of  the  Provence  roses,  the  Irish 
roses,  the  rare  hybrids  that  have  excited  so  keen  a  rivalry 
among  the  perverse  creatures  infesting  the  rose  garden. 

At  the  end  of  the  street  is  one  of  those  old-fashioned 
cottages,  now  a  dusky  white,  with  timeworn  green  shut- 
ters. "What  man  failed  to  do  with  his  architectural 
opportunities,  nature  has  done  most  willingly  with  roses. 
All  the  past  month  young  and  old  have  leaned  over  its 
paling  fence  and  gloated  upon  its  disorderly  charms,  and 
then  passed  on  without  a  thought  of  the  careful  lawns 


90         THE   JOY    OF    GARDENS 

beyond.  The  woman  who  lives  in  the  dusky  cottage  has 
roses  to  spare,  and  yet  has  never  read  a  rose  book  or 
aspired  to  be  a  "rosarian." 

The  eglantine  hedge,  planted  no  one  knows  when,  has 
crept  around  three  sides  of  the  lot  within  the  paling 
fence,  stretching  out  long,  sweeping  branches  to  arch  the 
narrow  gate.  All  the  neighborhood  knows  that  it  is 
sweetbrier,  and  in  June  no  schoolgirl  who  stops  to  greet 
its  owner  goes  away  without  her  bouquet. 

At  the  side  of  the  porch  is  a  clump  of  Scotch  roses,  a 
variety  that  has  adopted  the  climate  as  its  own,  and, 
being  another  of  the  delicious  scented  sweetbriers,  adds 
to  its  grace  in  small  roses  of  lovely  shining  yellow,  a 
transmuted  sunshine,  a  cloth  of  gold,  if  ever  one  was 
permitted  by  fairydom  to  drape  a  rosebush. 

Not  far  away  is  another  unnamed  common  rose — but 
is  any  rose  common'?  It  bears  a  thousand  leaves  treas- 
ured by  the  makers  of  rose  jars,  leaves  that  shed  a  richer 
odor  on  being  crushed,  just  as  some  lives  bring  out  their 
loftier  virtues  under  the  pressure  of  adversity.  The 
Baltimore  belle  and  prairie  queen  have  wreathed  the 
window  frames,  and  among  the  tangled  grass  below  the 
wild  prairie  roses  have  crept  in  from  the  roadside  with 
bouncing  Bets  and  yarrow. 

As  we  turn  the  corner  of  the  house  where  the  sun 
glares  down  on  the  clayey  soil,  we  discover  a  small  plan- 
tation of  roses  covered  with  buds  and  open  blossoms. 


THE    ODORS    OF   ARABY         91 

Why  this  prosperity  amid  neglect,  when  ours,  watched  by 
day  and  night,  are  the  victims  of  hungry  pests'?  What 
have  we  done  to  call  down  insect  Goths  and  Vandals'? 

There  is  a  freemasonry  among  gardeners  safe  to  take 
advantage  of,  if  we  keep  alive  the  right  spirit  of  humility 
about  our  own  successes  and  are  more  willing  to  take 
advice  than  give  it.  An  offer  of  a  pitcher  of  cold  butter- 
milk on  a  hot  morning,  a  plate  of  fresh  huckleberry  cake, 
or  a  basket  of  black  cherries  are  the  proper  keys  to  invite 
civility,  and  the  most  crabbed  gardener  stiffened  in  his 
own  opinions  about  you  and  your  affairs  must  look 
kindly  upon  a  Greek  bearing  such  gifts. 

However,  a  gentle  neighborly  curiosity  impelled  a 
visitor  to  approach  the  dusky  cottage  with  a  peace  offer- 
ing, and  to  regard  the  owner  of  the  sunbonnet  with 
gracious  deference.  She  was  on  her  knees,  with  leather 
gloves,  trowel,  and  clippers,  giving  service  to  General 
Jacqueminot,  Marechal  Niel,  Clothilde  Soupert,  and 
Bon  Silene,  and  a  sweet  sanguine  rose  nestled  in  her 
hair.  She  had  no  views  on  roses,  but  used  her  woman's 
wit  to  whisk  her  spiders  with  a  broom,  sprinkle  an  emul- 
sion from  her  own  recipe  of  hellebore,  soapsuds,  and 
what-not,  and  there  were  two  or  three  old  umbrellas  kept 
to  hoist  over  precious  buds  when  a  thunderstorm  was 
due ;  and  her  reward  was  roses. 

If  fate  denies  those  under  the  clouds  of  city  smoke 
the  right  to  become  "rosarians"  they  may  have  other 


92         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

compensations.  Every  one  who  has  a  garden  expects  to 
hear  how  the  roses  are  doing — keeping  alive  that  pleasant 
fiction  that  if  we  will  we  may  have  them — and  so  we 
may,  if  we  shut  our  ambitions  from  the  varieties  that 
belong  to  Provence  and  lands  where  it  is  ever  summer 
and  always  afternoon,  without  the  rains  of  a  dying  year 
and  a  winter  of  discontent. 

Our  sweet  peas  are  like  girl  graduates,  pretty,  dainty, 
and  youthful.  They  have  come  in  rose  time,  and  climbed 
high  on  their  screen,  and  their  little  bonnets  look  far 
down  the  road.  Cutting  sweet  peas  before  breakfast  is  a 
real  sweetener  of  the  atmosphere  before  planning  to 
work,  perchance  to  hunt  stakes  and  tear  strips  of  muslin 
to  tie  up  the  tall  dahlias  and  gladioli.  Dahlias  take 
hours  of  coaxing,  while  the  gladioli  seem  to  consider  life 
an  easy  affair;  yet  the  dahlia  fancier  would  not  give  one 
root  for  a  dozen  gladioli,  and  the  devotee  of  gladioli 
would  laugh  to  scorn  a  devotion  to  dahlias. 

As  we  are  denied  glittering  successes  in  roses,  it  is 
within  the  power  of  a  tactful  gardener  to  transfer  his 
loves.  Perchance  when  our  back  is  turned  on  red  spiders 
and  slugs  to  lavish  affection  on  some  hardier  plant  than 
the  rose,  the  pests  themselves  will  travel  along  and  meet 
a  Goliath  lurking  in  unexplored  vegetation.  Or  it  may 
be,  if  we  let  them  alone  they  will  find  rumpled  rose 
leaves  in  their  Capua,  and  a  gourmand  appetite  will  urge 
them  to  anarchy  and  to  devour  one  another. 


THE    ODORS    OF   ARABY         93 

A  devotion  to  the  rose  must  be  fostered  as  one  of  the 
finer  passions  of  life,  in  which  feeble  human  power  offers 
a  gift  of  affection  to  nature's  supreme  flower,  without 
rival  in  color,  and  with  a  breath  blown  by  enchantment 
from  the  Elysian  fields  to  this  commonplace  earth  of 
ours. 


ET  IN  ARCADIA  FUISTI 

;<T  ET  not  the  grass  grow  on  the  paths  that  lead  to  the 
-L 4  house  of  your  friend,"  warned  the  calendar  for  the 
day,  inspiring  the  dreaming  garden  maker  to  take  a  subur- 
ban road  to  discover  the  triumphs  of  Phyllis  and  her  flock 
of  active  children.  It  is  thus  that  fate  knocks  at  the  door 
and  points  to  unseen  vistas  in  the  land  of  the  heart's 
desire,  which  in  this  instance  was  a  garden  not  alone  for 
to-day  but  for  to-morrow.  The  home  was  modest  and 
befitting  the  income  of  a  city  man,  and,  seen  from  afar, 
it  was  invested  with  a  halo  of  glory  of  blooming  shrubs. 
In  common  with  many  college-bred  parents,  these  had 
their  ideas  concerning  the  bringing  up  of  children,  which, 
being  in  the  spirit  of  the  time,  hinged  on  the  vital  impor- 
tance of  play  in  the  open  air.  Who  with  six  lively  young 
animals  in  the  first  stages  of  boyish  independence  could 
hope  to  keep  flower  beds  in  the  pink  of  perfection  in  the 
confines  of  a  seventy-five-foot  lot? 

A  stern-hearted  guardian  and  a  bundle  of  switches 
might  terrorize  the  thoughtless  crew  who,  however  de- 
voted to  posies,  must  still  have  space  to  play  ball  and 
tumble  about.    Then  as  for  fair  Phyllis,  no  longer  did 
94 


ET    IN    ARCADIA   FUISTI          95 

"fleet  the  time  carelessly  as  in  the  golden  world"  of  girl- 
hood— tiny  boys  and  girls  clamored  for  the  hours,  and 
gardening  minutes  were  uncertain. 

And  so  it  came  about  that  the  shrub  plantation  trans- 
formed the  little  villa  the  year  around,  making  it  seem 
the  haunt  of  a  sleeping  beauty  in  the  wood,  protected 
from  the  public  road  by  a  hedge  of  Japanese  barberry, 
ever  beautiful  from  budding  time  until  the  birds  had 
nipped  the  last  berry  of  the  scarlet  fringe  that  hung  over 
the  snowdrifts.  A  warm  spell  in  April  was  sure  to  hang 
out  the  signals  of  gold  on  the  forsythia  massed  together 
in  a  corner,  and  they  have  scarcely  faded  before  the 
peach  and  the  redbud  trees  shed  the  blushes  of  the  rose 
on  the  other  side  of  the  house,  where  the  children  are 
hunting  for  violets  in  the  grass. 

After  that,  the  long  procession  of  lilacs,  purple  and 
white,  between  the  neighbor's  driveway  and  the  lawn, 
begins  to  open  clusters  of  bloom,  and  brings  the  walkers 
of  a  Sunday  afternoon  from  far  and  near  to  sniff  their 
sweetness  at  a  distance  and  to  look  with  longing  eyes  on 
the  Japanese  quince  painting  a  bright  spot  of  sea-shell 
red  against  the  gray  of  stone  foundations,  or  the  rosy 
loveliness  of  the  flowering  almond  that  becomes  visible 
on  the  other  side  of  the  porch  as  one  goes  on.  In  May 
the  bush  honeysuckle  sheltering  the  kitchen  door  with 
jealous  care  is  in  bloom,  and  the  snowballs  loom  up  like 
ghosts  in  the  twilight  when  you  chance  to  pass  that  way. 


96         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

What  a  wonderland  of  delight  it  is  to  the  children 
from  the  outer  world,  so  full  of  mysterious  hiding 
places,  ever  rich  in  surprises  of  birds'  nests  and  blossoms ! 
It  is  a  real  fairyland,  changing  from  day  to  day,  and 
should  you  be  one  of  the  favored  friends  who  may  pull 
the  latchstring  of  the  gate  under  the  arch  of  trumpet 
creeper,  a  day  is  all  too  short  to  visit  the  blossoming 
shrines  and  learn  the  latest  tidings  from  the  catbirds' 
nest  that  has  made  the  regions  about  the  flowering 
syringas  forbidden  ground. 

It  may  be  that  the  sweetbrier  will  be  in  bud,  or  that 
a  single  spray  will  have  been  kept  for  you  on  the  pungent 
flowering  currant.  Perhaps  you  will  hear  that  mush- 
rooms have  come  up  where  the  meadowsweet  was 
planted,  or  that  a  real  fairy  ring  was  discovered  in  the 
clover  in  the  calycanthus  bower;  for  surely  so  strange  a 
flower  as  this,  smelling  of  pineapple,  must  bloom  for 
gnomes  or  brownies. 

You  may  be  taken  to  the  nook  planted  with  shrubs 
which  you  helped  dig  once  upon  a  time  in  a  ravine  hard 
by,  and  your  counsel  asked  about  the  red  dogwood,  the 
pussy  willow,  the  buttonball,  and  hop  tree,  and  you  may 
discover  that  the  shadbush  is  in  bloom  and  one  of  the 
prettiest  shrubs  of  all  in  the  lacey  robes  of  spring. 

The  snowberry  is  not  yet  flowering,  but  already  an 
ingenious  young  rascal  has  rigged  a  scarecrow  to  warn  off 
the  birds,  that  snowberries  and  moutain-ash  fruit  may 


A  JAPANESE  GARDEN   AT  WYNNEWOOD,   PENNSYLVANIA 


ET    IN    ARCADIA   FUISTI          97 

hang  for  winter  provisions.  And  here  are  the  latest 
guests,  a  double-flowering  crab  and  a  staghorn  sumac, 
and  in  the  background  the  weigelas  and  altheas,  the 
harvest  home  and  the  Rose  of  Sharon,  which  will  be  gay 
in  midsummer  and  early  autumn. 

While  a  garden  is  first  of  all  a  place  for  flowers, 
grounds  are  first  of  all  a  place  for  shrubs,  which  are  but 
flowers  of  a  larger  growth.  The  shrub,  be  it  calycanthus 
or  flowering  currant,  is  a  grateful  thing  that  will  grow 
into  the  affections.  Many  shrubs  chuckle  in  their  secret 
hearts  that  they  are  always  there,  showing  color  or  fruit 
or  gallant  shapes  against  snowdrifts  when  the  perennials 
are  nodding  and  the  annuals  have  gone  to  their  long  rest. 

If  the  plot  of  ground  is  large  enough,  and  the  heart 
likewise,  there  is  much  satisfaction  in  making  compan- 
ionship of  flowers  and  shrubs,  using  the  latter  for  a  back- 
ground or  a  shelter,  and  cherishing  one  while  you  cherish 
the  other.  The  shrub  has  its  willful  sins  and  pestering 
temptations,  with  as  many  parasitic  enemies  as  the  most 
devoted  among  us,  seeking  the  upward  way  to  grace  and 
flowering  virtue. 

If  anywhere  on  earth,  we  believe  in  his  garden,  most 
of  all,  a  man  has  a  right  to  indulge  his  fancy.  Set  the 
compass  by  the  polestar  of  beauty  and  delight,  and  what 
matter  if  others  think  you  mad !  Go  on  and  olant  what 
you  like. 

A  shrubbery  lot  comes  a  step  nearer  paradise  if  a 


g8         THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

flower  garden  with  hollyhocks,  foxgloves,  mignonette, 
and  sweet-smelling  and  gay-looking  blooms  congregate 
where  the  sun  shines.  If  joy  is  overabundant,  then  we 
can  afford  to  hedge  ourselves  in  with  tall  lilacs  or  mock 
orange,  but  one  with  the  true  beauty  hunger  would  like 
a  window  to  peep  into  his  neighbor's  orchard,  and  an 
opening  where  the  neighbor  could  look  in.  Joy  is  a 
neighborly  spirit,  and  a  rambling  company  of  rugosa 
roses  bearing  flowers  for  June  and  fruit  for  December 
for  a  pretending  barrier,  with  outlooks  here  and  there, 
would  keep  life's  business  in  a  summer  mood. 

On  the  lawn  where  the  grass  had  been  clipped  away 
from  the  iris  bed  to  let  the  sun  warm  the  earth  about  the 
plant  roots,  a  morning-glory  seed  sown  by  the  wind  had 
taken  root  and  sent 'up  a  graceful  stem  full  six  inches  in 
length  that  reached  out  a  sensitive  terminal  bud  to  grasp 
a  spray  of  iris  about  unfurling  its  purple  bloom.  Hard- 
ness of  heart  must  be  a  virtue  of  a  weeding  woman.  No 
good,  aspiring  soul  realizes  the  seeds  of  cruelty  buried 
deep  within  it  until,  in  the  guise  of  a  gardener,  duty 
points  to  pulling  roots,  slaying  grubs  and  slugs,  scaring 
sparrows  and  predatory  kittens,  and  shooing  chickens  and 
the  investigating  child. 

A  stern  sense  of  the  survival  of  the  fittest  bars  out  the 
quality  of  mercy.  Either  admit  sparrows,  kittens,  and 
youngsters,  and  make  heyday  with  them  while  bidding 
farewell  to  neat  garden  beds,  or  maintain  a  firm  front 


ET    IN    ARCADIA    FUISTI          99 

and  debar  them  all.  Weeds  are  such  a  little  way  from 
humankind.  If  you  have  fought  crab  grass,  plantain,  or 
sprawling  vines,  sooner  or  later  an  eerie  feeling  possesses 
you  that  they  know  more  than  they  confess,  and  that  they 
are  scheming  at  night  while  you  are  asleep.  You  wonder 
in  what  phase  of  existence  they  learned  their  tricks. 

This  wee  morning-glory  was  bound  to  succeed,  for  it 
had  been  practicing  throwing  its  lasso  tendril  by  the  light 
of  the  moon,  as  the  perfect  spiral  bending  toward  the 
iris  told  too  plainly.  It  seemed  a  sin  to  uproot  it;  but 
what  about  the  waiting  iris  bloom,  what  of  the  artist  iris 
lover  to  whom  the  offense  of  mixed  plants  was  a  greater 
sin  than  the  ending  of  the  life  of  the  morning-glory  vine*? 
With  a  look  to  right  and  to  left  to  see  that  no  one  was 
watching,  the  tender-hearted  weeder  lifted  the  earth 
about  the  morning-glory  roots  with  a  wide  scoop  of  the 
trowel,  and,  all  unconscious  that  it  was  being  taken  to 
other  worlds,  it  was  replanted  beside  the  kitchen  porch  in 
another  warm,  sunny  spot,  and  a  string  made  ready  for  its 
climbing. 

Of  all  the  plants  that  grow,  vines  are  the  most  respon- 
sive and  companionable.  Their  unceasing  efforts  "up,  up 
to  the  light"  help  the  soul  in  its  battle  for  courage ;  and, 
if  one  lacks  amusement  for  the  idle  hour,  it  is  certain  to 
be  found  among  the  vines.  Ten  or  a  dozen  are  not  too 
many  for  the  garden  that  is  to  be  a  "sanctuary  of  sweet 
and  placid  pleasure."  Each  has  its  crochets,  its  fancies, 


ioo       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

and  its  own  sweet  will,  which  to-day  it  will  bend  in  gentle 
compliance  to  serve  your  own,  and  to-night  go  wandering. 

We  love  it  all  the  more  because  it  is  a  bit  willful,  and 
because  it  will  not  be  led  by  the  rules  of  bittersweet,  of 
honeysuckle,  or  of  any  other  climber,  taking  the  chances 
of  its  own  vagaries.  Manlike,  you  may  string  your  nets 
and  offer  support,  wooing — "I  love  you,  love  me  back" ; 
but  the  vine,  responding  for  the  hour,  reaches  out  long 
sprays  to  tempt  the  winds  the  moment  you  look  the  other 
way. 

Fortunately  vines  keep  on  climbing  whatever  the 
weather,  and  it  is  a  comfort  to  one  in  the  toils  of  the  day's 
work  to  know  that  his  climbers  are  still  aspiring.  Nor 
need  we  go  to  India  or  Japan  for  beauty.  In  our  own 
vacant  lot  is  the  wild  grape,  and  many  a  forest  oak,  long 
dead,  is  draped  with  Virginia  creeper,  from  which  a  start- 
ing plant  may  be  taken  without  heaping  guilt  on  your 
soul.  The  wild  grape  is  a  jewel  among  the  vines;  beauti- 
ful in  grace  and  color,  its  leaves  unsurpassed  in  shape, 
it  blooms  in  early  spring  and  in  June  sheds  a  delicious 
fragrance.  In  July  its  foliage  is  luxuriant,  hiding  the 
ripening  grapes. 

Your  formal  garden  neighbor  may  object  to  reckless 
vine  planting;  but  why  ask  him  at  all,  for  the  probability 
is  that  he  does  not  plant  anything*?  The  stone  wall  will 
last  a  century,  though  vine  fingers  are  feeling  their  way 
into  the  mortar.  If  it  is  so  poorly  built  that  it  cannot 


ET   IN   ARCADIA   FUISTI        101 

stand  a  Boston  ivy,  then  the  sooner  the  vine  makes  an 
end  to  it  the  better. 

A  vine-covered  wall  is  the  best  recipe  that  I  know  for 
driving  off  the  blues,  and  dull  care  cannot  hold  sway 
while  vines  are  growing.  Early  in  the  morning  you  dis- 
cover that  the  vines  need  pruning;  at  noon  you  must 
climb  the  Indder  to  turn  curious  tendrils  aside  from  creep- 
ing where  you  have  forbidden ;  at  three  o'clock  a  sparrow 
colony  has  chosen  a  location;  at  five  a  tent  caterpillar  has 
made  its  web,  and  so  your  business  goes  on  all  night  while 
swallows  and  bats  are  on  the  wing. 

The  wistari?  magnifica  is  a  splendid  grower  to  set  at 
the  post  of  a  pergola  or  an  arbor.  It  is  an  event  in  life 
to  sit  beneath  its  shade  when  June  has  opened  its  racemes 
of  purple  lilacs.  The  trumpet  creeper  is  another  of  my 
favorites,  not  quite  as  aristocratic  as  the  wistaria,  but 
rugged,  tropical,  and  glorious  when  it  offers  its  swinging 
stems  of  flaming  trumpets,  and  bees  hum  in  and  out,  and 
every  ant  colony  far  and  near  sends  its  cohorts  to  steal  the 
nectar  from  its  cells.  The  Dutchman's  pipe  is  another 
sturdy  vine  growing  luxuriantly,  and  there  is  the  new 
Jack-and-the-beanstalk,  the  Kudzu  vine,  a  perennial  that 
travels  seventy  feet  in  a  summer. 

What  of  the  honeysuckle?  Who  that  has  ever  hung 
enchanted  over  a  spray  of  creamy  pink  and  white,  sweeter 
than  the  perfume  of  any  other  flower,  would  forget  it*? 
It  is  the  flower  of  the  poet,  created  for  bowers  and  arbors. 


102       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

The  delicious  fragrance  of  the  white  jasmine  makes  it  a 
rival,  the  beauty  of  the  Japanese  clematis  asks  for  its 
share  of  admiration,  but  none  excels  the  honeysuckle — 
though  if  there  is  garden  room  I  should  have  them  all  and 
rejoice  in  their  companionship. 

The  large  flowering  clematis  draping  a  gray  wall  in  its 
purple  is  a  charming  thing;  and  then  there  are  the  lesser 
ones  of  the  same  species  of  pink  and  violet  and  white, 
most  useful  when  we  need  a  mass  of  color  to  put  us  in 
singing  humor. 

We  need  be  wise  in  an  age  of  the  renaissance  of  the 
formal  garden,  lest  our  impulses  for  unschooled  freedom, 
and  plantations  rich  in  suggestion  of  jocund  beauty, 
of  tender  color  and  perfume,  are  bound  by  conven- 
tions. What  more  shall  we  ask  of  life  than  that  it  per- 
mit us  to  remain  companionable  and  to  become  more 
companionable? 

A  screen  at  the  kitchen  door  draped  with  common 
morning-glories — if  you  have  not  the  Japanese  variety — 
is  a  haven  of  beauty  in  the  early  morning  and  an 
encourager  of  sociable  small  talk.  The  makeshift  of  a 
coal  house  or  tool  shed  will  throw  an  artist  into  ecstasy  if 
overrun  with  a  foxgrape  you  have  stolen  from  the  woods, 
and  the  scarlet  runner  taking  its  way  along  the  fence  top, 
the  gourd  and  balloon  vines,  the  red  cypress,  are  alive 
with  quaint  tricks,  and  the  most  social  of  all  social  climb- 
ers to  take  into  the  family. 


ET   IN   ARCADIA   FUISTI        103 

Have  you  lost  your  faith  in  miracles?  Then  rise  with 
the  sun  to-morrow,  when  garden  and  orchard  and  meadow 
are  jeweled  with  dew.  Stand  before  the  humble  morning- 
glory  that  you  have  despised,  and  while  you  look  and 
would  count  the  sparkle  of  crystal  drops  upon  the  emer- 
ald leaves,  a  host  of  flowers  unfurl  at  some  divine  com- 
mand, chalices  of  pearl  and  blue  and  rose  are  lifted  in 
adoration  before  the  shrine  of  the  rising  sun,  bringing 
another  day  to  a  thoughtless  world  waking  under  the. 
azure  skies  and  yet  forgetful  of  the  heavenly  presence. 


WHEN  BEES  COURT  THE  CLOVER 

A  GROUP  of  double  pink  hollyhocks,  blushing  on  the 
outer  petals,  deep  rose  at  the  hearts,  set  on  stately 
stalks  amid  velvety  leaves  of  richest  green,  nodding  above 
a  thatched  beehive,  compose  as  pretty  a  picture  as  one  can 
find  in  all  the  floral  books  painted  by  landscape  architects. 

The  association  of  bees  and  hollyhocks  in  this  instance 
was  one  of  those  fortunate  accidents  brought  about  by  a 
benign  goddess  of  affairs  who  feared  mischance  would 
follow  our  reasoning.  The  giant  snapdragon  had  been 
thought  of  to  fill  the  corner  behind  the  hive,  the  pentste- 
mons,  the  Canterbury  bells,  and  foxgloves,  but  none  at- 
tained the  height  of  the  hollyhock,  nor  did  any  own  its 
air  of  remoteness  and  self-sufficiency.  It  seemed  to  have 
a  sense  of  maintaining  a  decorative  position. 

It  alone  of  all  the  hardy  plants  seemed  to  put  in  no 
plea  for  neighborly  attention,  and,  for  all  we  knew,  was, 
in  its  flowery  ways,  pluming  itself  on  being  equal  to 
loneliness  and  the  exigencies  of  solitude — gifts  not 
granted  the  common  lot. 

Lest  the  imp  of  discontent  should  creep  in,  as  it  may  in 
exclusive  society,  it  is  well  to  have  a  note  of  life,  and  here 
104 


BEES   COURT    THE   CLOVER    105 

were  set  the  busy  humming  bees  to  make  work  and  play 
at  the  feet  of  the  queenly  hollyhocks. 

Many  a  time  we  have  blessed  that  hour  of  decision,  for 
it  is  one  of  the  very  few  corners  of  the  garden  to  which 
we  dare  take  a  guest  in  confidence  that  he  will  not  lift  a 
critical  eyebrow  and  comment  on  a  might-have-been.  To 
be  a  truly  social  spirit  in  a  wide  circle  of  friends  it  is 
necessary  to  cultivate  an  amiability  to  accept  the  criticism 
of  those  who  have  not  learned  the  A  B  C  of  tact. 

Only  one  remark  lingers  concerning  the  hollyhocks, 
and  that  was  from  an  oversensitive  person  who  said  they 
reminded  him  of  dairymaids,  and  ought  to  be  relegated  to 
kitchen  gardens  to  give  the  artistic  note  to  pumps  and 
milk  pans.  Sheep  in  a  painted  landscape  affected  him  in 
the  same  unpleasant  manner — as  they  belonged  to  a  sheep- 
fold  and  the  market  place,  why  drive  them  into  our  deco- 
rations? This  one  commonplace  out  of  mind,  the 
hollyhocks  present  a  fine  tableau  of  dignified  plants  with 
noble  blossoms  attended  by  adoring  servitors  of  honey- 
seeking  bees. 

Once  in  a  long  time,  and  always  in  an  out-of-the-way 
corner  of  the  world,  in  Woods  Hole,  the  eastern  shore  of 
Chesapeake  Bay,  or  in  Devon,  England,  lives  a  fanatical 
hollyhockian.  He  or  she  plants  hollyhocks  for  variety, 
glories  in  numbers  and  queer  sorts,  knows  them  by  name, 
raises  them  from  seed  or  grafts,  plants  cuttings,  divides 
roots,  and  does  things  that  we  should  never  dare  to  do. 


io6       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

Ten  years  ago  such  a  person  raised  hollyhocks  near 
Woods  Hole — she  may  be  there  still — and  travelers  came 
from  afar  to  lean  on  the  fence  and  look  at  them.  A  few 
descendants  of  these  thrifty  plants  ventured  to  the  West, 
by  way  of  seeds,  in  the  corner  of  a  pocket  handkerchief. 
Of  course  they  ought  not  to  have  grown,  according  to  the 
views  of  strict  morality,  but  every  old-time  gardener  will 
tell  you  that  stolen  seeds  do  best — not  that  I  would  en- 
courage thievery,  not  for  all  the  world;  but  there  is  such 
a  saying,  and  hence  the  underground  traffic  in  seeds  in 
letters  and  vest  pockets. 

You  know  as  well  as  I  that  if  the  flowers  of  the  world 
waited  to  be  listed  on  bills  and  given  for  coin,  few  would 
be  grown,  and  the  human  carrier  who  takes  a  seed  to  plant 
is  helping  survival  along,  which  the  grub  and  the  slug  are 
ever  lying  in  wait  to  destroy.  Back  of  every  flower  bed 
lies  a  page  of  history  its  owners  do  not  inadvertently  tell. 

Remembering  the  virtues  of  hollyhocks,  it  is  strange 
that  more  hedges  are  not  planted  and  the  beautiful  array 
of  colors  made  familiar.  The  pinks  and  reds,  frilly 
double  whites  and  yellows,  hold  a  place  all  alone,  and  the 
tall,  well-proportioned  plants  make  a  distinguished  deco- 
ration in  grounds.  So  many  other  plants  give  bloom  for 
the  table  and  bouquets,  and  may  be  plucked,  and  have 
fragrance,  that  the  home  gardener  can  afford  to  give  a 
space  to  a  hedge  or  a  corner  of  choice  hollyhocks  just 
for  their  ornament  and  value  as  a  background.  Of  their 


BEES   COURT   THE   CLOVER    107 

disadvantages  nothing  need  be  said,  as  they  are  easily 
kept  free  of  pests  and  their  merits  gain  a  firm  hold  on 
the  heart.  Having  the  virtues  of  use  and  beauty,  they 
are  regarded  highly. 

While  one  beehive  made  a  picture  with  the  group  of 
pink  hollyhocks,  another  was  hidden  in  a  clump  of  rich 
yellow  that  towered  above  the  French  marigolds,  coreop- 
sis, and  calendulas,  all  yellows.  It  was  a  quaint  arrange- 
ment, and  artistic  enough  to  call  a  painter  with  his 
three-legged  stool  and  easel  to  sketch  the  tangle.  The 
dairymaid  character  is  not  altogether  a  misplaced  idea 
with  sunflowers  or  hollyhocks,  for  a  brief  glance  will 
show  how  difficult  it  is  to  be  content  with  a  refined  flower 
of  gentle  lineage  at  their  feet,  while,  when  alone,  the 
robust  quality  of  stem  and  foliage  contribute  to  a  barbaric 
sort  of  beauty. 

Have  you  ever  planned  a  fete  rich  in  tricks  and  sur- 
prises, and  then  awakened  on  the  day  with  a  beating  heart 
lest  the  spectacle  you  had  pictured  had  been  shifted  by  a 
hand  of  destiny  touching  the  kaleidoscope,  and  something 
else  meet  your  view? 

This  should  be  the  feeling  of  one  who  has  given  the 
affection  to  a  garden  of  annuals  and  looks  forward  to 
early  July,  for  July  is  the  test  of  planting  for  color  and 
midsummer  beauty.  Just  now  we  lucky  ones  are  glad  if 
the  hollyhocks  of  pink  and  healthy  color  are  making 
bright  their  clumps,  if  the  sapphire-blue  larkspurs  are 


io8       THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

massing  their  reflections  of  the  sky  above  snowy  borders 
of  candytuft  and  banks  of  recklessly  blooming  feverfew. 

Earth  has  two  orders  of  gardeners:  the  domestic  kind 
who  owns  a  "flower  bed"  into  which  he  cannot  crowd  too 
many  sweet,  familiar  flowers,  and  the  trained  gardener 
who  plans  on  paper  and  judges  all  his  success  from  effects 
seen  from  the  street.  The  first  weaves  posies  into  his 
nature  as  he  weaves  the  flowers  of  art  and  poetry,  to  en- 
rich his  personality  and  to  open  his  vision  to  human 
sympathy;  and  the  second,  well-meaning  enough,  esti- 
mates from  the  critic's  point  of  view. 

It  would  be  a  privilege  to  have  a  tender  side  for  the 
lovely  things  behind  the  hedge,  and  to  be  able  to  satisfy 
the  rules  of  art  in  color  and  arrangement;  but  if  I  can 
have  only  one  gardener  as  a  friend,  give  me  the  posy 
lover. 

Over  the  hills  and  far  away  in  the  true  farming  country 
the  white  clover  has  thrown  its  veil  of  gossamer  across 
the  face  of  the  landscape.  The  fresh  green  of  the  herbage 
takes  on  a  silver  sheen  spreading  from  the  inclosed  pas- 
ture te  the  very  edges  of  the  dusty  roadside  and  along  the 
garden  path;  and  had  you  seen  it  at  sunrise  you  would 
have  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  thousand  jeweled  dewdrops 
spangling  its  folds  ere  the  sunbeams  caught  them  aloft 
into  the  azure  atmosphere. 

Look  to-morrow  morning,  and  impassioned  July  will 
have  torn  it  away  and  the  meadows  will  be  blushing  rosy 


BEES   COURT    THE   CLOVER    109 

red.  White  clover's  reign  has  given  place  to  a  new  order 
of  summer  time,  and  all  nature  is  paying  obeisance  to 
overblown  blossoms  of  pale  crimson. 

The  delicate  fragrance  of  flower  petals  that  lingered 
from  the  hours  of  June  and  culminated  in  the  breath  of 
white  clover  has  vanished  in  the  presence  of  the  tropical 
odors  of  July  in  its  prime.  White-clover  perfume  is  as 
elusive  as  that  arising  from  swinging  censers  above  the 
Virgin's  shrine  in  Old  World  chapels,  but  red-clover  fra- 
grance has  all  the  alluring  qualities  of  the  pungent  scents 
of  sandalwood  and  Eastern  spices. 

Well  should  nature  lovers  cry  "All  hail !"  in  the  hour 
of  clover  bloom,  for  these  are  the  true  aristocrats  of  the 
pastures,  and  have  climbed  high  in  the  scale  of  evolution. 
The  genuine  thoroughbred,  conscious  that  he  is  fittest  to 
survive,  hates  classification  and  analysis  of  his  family  in- 
heritance. It  is  enough  that  he  has  selected  admirable 
qualities  of  each  generation,  as  he  has  held  his  own  in  the 
struggle  for  existence,  and  that  he  has  been  able  to  trans- 
mit the  best  to  his  progeny.  Why  talk  about  it  at  all,  say 
they;  why  not  fix  all  your  powers  to  win  over  circum- 
stance, and  "make  stepping-stones  of  our  dead  selves  to 
higher  things'"? 

This  is  what  the  clover  has  done.  The  wee  white 
clover,  with  its  thousands  of  creeping  roots  feeling  their 
way  in  the  darkness  and  lifting  the  heavy  soil  to  let  sun- 
light and  air  into  the  depths,  scatters  its  gifts  of  nitrogen 


no        THE   JOY    OF    GARDENS 

and  gives  to  the  earth  as  much  as  it  takes.  Like  the  soul 
of  a  saint,  it  makes  better  the  places  that  shelter  it.  And 
counting  its  production  of  leafage  and  blossom,  its  stores 
of  honey  and  meed  of  beauty,  aside  from  forage  value,  the 
clover  should  be  considered  among  the  most  welcome 
guests,  as  it  really  is,  of  the  farming  lands. 

It  is  well  worth  while  to  adopt  the  clovers  among  our 
acquaintances.  Pluck  one  little  pea-shaped  floret  from 
the  clover  head  and  note  its  close  resemblance  to  the  white 
flowers  that  graced  the  acacia  in  June.  Then  hold  it  close 
to  the  splendid  purple  wistaria  hanging  from  the  trellis, 
and  recall  the  locust  bloom  of  springtime,  the  gorse  and 
golden  broom  that  decorate  the  Scotch  highlands,  the 
little  blue  vetch  and  purple  nonesuch  of  the  roadside  and 
pastures,  and,  finally,  turn  to  the  sweet  pea  of  the  flower 
borders  and  the  blossoms  of  the  vegetable  garden ;  and  lo ! 
they  are  all  of  one  kindred.  The  modest  white  clover, 
the  loyal  shamrock,  and  its  prodigal  sister  the  red 
clover,  are  leaders  in  the  evolution  of  this  honored  family 
of  flower  folk. 

All  the  virtues  that  a  kindly  providence  bestows  upon 
the  bloom  of  plants  have  been  awarded  the  clover.  They 
have  changed  more  to  suit  their  particular  habits  than  any 
other  species  of  their  relatives.  Beauty  and  perfume  are 
theirs,  and  they  are  distinctively  bee  flowers.  Each  head 
of  clover  is  composed  of  thirty  or  forty  tiny  white  or 
purplish  pea  flowers,  every  one  set  in  a  protecting  hairy 


BEES   COURT    THE   CLOVER    111 

calyx  of  its  own.  The  prickly  hedge  of  thorns  did  not 
guard  the  sleeping  beauty  more  securely  from  marauders 
until  the  right  prince  should  come  than  do  these  bristling 
hairs  protect  the  honey  store  from  robber  ants,  giving  only 
before  the  ardor  of  the  honeybee. 

The  advance  of  the  clover  floret  has  modified  its  orig- 
inal shape,  and  it  no  longer  resembles  the  common  pea 
blossom,  which  has  four  distinct  and  separate  petals.  In 
the  clover  floret  these  will  be  seen  to  have  grown  together 
at  the  base,  making  a  single  tube  most  convenient  for 
honey  hunters.  Yet  look  farther.  Not  only  is  the  bee 
served,  but  nature  has  seen  to  it  that  the  clover  should 
benefit  by  the  change.  The  stamens  of  the  floret  have 
coalesced  with  the  petal  tube,  and  the  entering  bee  pays 
toll  for  his  honey  by  scattering  the  pollen  and  fertilizing 
the  blossom,  making  it  a  certain  seed  bearer. 

Every  one  with  a  taste  for  sweets  knows  the  flavor  of 
clover  honey.  It  inherits  the  deliciousness  of  the  nectar 
of  the  gods  gleaned  from  the  thymy  banks  of  the  vale  of 
Hymettus  and  the  slopes  of  Parnassus;  and  who  dares 
deny  that  the  clover  meadows  were  there,  and  but  escaped 
the  eyes  of  the  poet  though  he  inhaled  their  fragrance*? 
For  no  thymy  banks  can  vie  with  a  clover  field  in  mid- 
summer. 

The  red  clover  claims  the  splendid  humblebee  for  its 
very  own.  His  proboscis  was  designed  to  penetrate  its 
long  trumpet  and  carry  off  the  honey  collected  in  the 


112        THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

heart  of  the  floret.  The  relationship  of  bees  and  clover  is 
most  intimate;  so  deep,  in  fact,  that  red  clover 
would  suffer  for  the  assistance  of  the  big  burly  black-and- 
gold  humblebee,  and  all  clover  decline  in  the  scale,  if 
robbed  of  insect  friends. 

The  humor  of  the  scientist,  who  gravely  reasoned  that 
the  crop  of  a  field  was  dependent  upon  the  spinsters  of  a 
neighborhood,  has  an  argument  so  acceptable  that  we  are 
willing  to  believe  it.  Its  logic  has  wit  in  it.  The  play  of 
field  mice  in  the  stubble  is  pretty  sport,  and  when  they 
go  ahunting  who  would  blame  them  for  stalking  the  hum- 
blebees  as  game1?  But  again  it  happens  as  in  life,  the 
victor  must  be  vanquished,  and  the  roving  tabby  cat 
pampered  by  old  maids  is  the  Nemesis. 

My  neighbor  of  single  blessedness  has  often  bewailed 
the  superfluous  woman.  Let  this  thought  comfort  her, 
that  she  has  not  been  forgotten  in  the  machinery  of  the 
universe.  While  she  takes  her  walks  abroad  at  evening, 
with  Madame  Tortoiseshell  at  her  side,  they  both  are 
actors  in  the  great  scheme  involving  the  clover  history, 
and  their  stage  of  usefulness  is  the  clover  meadow  in 
blossom  time,  and  even  now  while  the  sun  drops  low  be- 
hind the  distant  hills  and  the  vesper  bells  are  ringing. 


A   PERGOLA   IN    A    LOS  ANGELES   GARDEN 


IN  MIDSUMMER  FIELDS 

WHO  counts  the  cost  of  a  thunderstorm  in  July  when 
that  in  May  is  worth  a  load  of  hay,  and  one  in 
June  wins  a  silver  spoon?  Every  raindrop  refreshing  the 
thirsty  flower  is  far  more  welcome  than  a  diamond  would 
be,  sparkling  in  its  purity,  to  play  the  part  of  a  perpetual 
dewdrop;  and  no  theatrical  spectacle  can  equal  the  gran- 
deur of  rain-laden  clouds  heaped  mountain  high  with 
frosty,  inaccessible  summits. 

The  cloud  panorama  changes  continually,  never  re- 
peating its  scenes,  ever  wonderful ;  and  when  it  reaches  a 
culmination  of  angry  portent,  heavy  with  gathered  mois- 
ture, fired  with  stored  electricity,  it  outdoes  any  "thriller" 
presented  by  an  ingenious  showman. ' 

Cloud  watching  is  a  pastime  without  disappointment. 
It  is  so  far  beyond  human  meddling  that  I  feel  as  if  I  were 
looking  into  other  worlds,  and  am  made  rich  in  expe- 
riences of  fear,  of  awe  and  reverence,  and  delight  that 
puny  man  dares  enter  into  an  appreciation  of  visible  ex- 
citement in  nature  in  which  all  his  wisdom  has  no  part. 

As  the  thunderclouds  roll  on  the  horizon,  and  the  dark- 
ness deepens,  and  the  storm  gathers,  we  recall  that  it  was 
"3 


ii4       THE  JOY   OF  GARDENS 

courage  of  an  UDCOOBDGD  order  that  inspired  Benjamin 
Franklin  to  fly  his  kite  and  to  flout  the  warning  given 
Prometheus  when  he  aspired  to  steal  the  fire  from  heaven. 
The  age  has  produced  only  one  Franklin^  one  daring  soul 
to  reach  out  to  the  clouds  and  open  another  wonder  to  the 


Before  the  approaching  storm  the  nerves  are  keyed  to 
a  keen  state  of  excitement.  The  elements  let  loose 
tangled  ^itriflfr  of  lightning  nminons  flashlights  gl are  ?nd 
vanish,  and  loud  peals  of  thunder  seem  to  rend  the  clouds 
and  to  shake  the  solid  earth  on  which  we  stand,  playing 
havoc  with  nature  and  man's  petty  schemes. 

After  it  is  over  the  rain  has  fallen  and  the  black  vapors 
have  gone  with  the  wind,  the  storm  muttering  sullenly  in 
the  distance.  Then  the  sun  shines  out  sweetly,  as  if  there 
had  been  no  buisl  of  temper,  the  rain-washed  skies  are  a 
heavenly  blue,  and  the  flowers  lift  their  tattered  petals  to 
smile  as  before.  The  rain  has  purified  the  atmosphere, 
the  ground  is  saturated,  apd  the  garden  begins  to 


The  July  snrriimr,  ripening  the  harvest  fields  and 
AfAlMig  a  fervid  beat  to  hasten  the  growing  com  and  to 
dry  the  hay,  is  a  mischief-maker  among  our  annuals.  If 
it  has  its  way  seeds  would  be  maturing  and  blossom  time 
a  thing  of  the  past.  While  out  in  tbe  country  the  farmer 

IS  fnimr|h|TMy  his  o  flUfff!^^**  tifff  QtV  Pj^^Cf^n^T  t  lilUS  to  Tff^ 

forecasts  of  the  weather  bureau  as  he  picks  up  his 


IN   MIDSUMMER  FIELDS       115 

morning  paper.  All  signs  seem  to  fail  in  dry  weather;  the 
poplars  show  the  white  of  their  leaves  and  prove  false 
prophets,  the  birds  fly  low,  and  the  spiders  spin,  all  to  no 


The  clouds  rising  in  the  southwest  we  were  sure  held 
the  rains  and,  filling  us  with  hope,  crept  aside  to  pour 
their  waters  on  more  favored  pastures,  Long  experience 
has  taught  that  a  shower  will  do  more  for  our  blossoming 
beds  than  all  the  nights  of  a  week  devoted  to  work  with 
the  hose.  Nature  knows  the  right  temperature,  and  just 
how  to  wash  foliage  and  send  streams  to  the  roots. 

BAoR.  gardens  have  been  ruined  by  careless  sprinklers 
than  by  a  dry  spell,  and  sometimes  weed  pulling,  stirring 
the  sun-baked  beds  with  a  hoe,  and  faithful  clipping  of 
seed  pods  and  dry  AMPULS*  will  keep  blossoms  unfolding 
in  a  healthier  condition  than  if  sprinkled.  The  calendu- 
las, marigolds,  coreopsis,  calliopsis,  and  petunias  should 
begin  to  look  their  best,  and  if  an  annual  does  not  show 
ambition,  now  is  the  time  to  pull  it  up. 

The  thunderstorm  of  the  early  morning,  clearing  about 
six  o'clock,  is  an  invitation  to  be  out.  It  delays  the  open- 
ing of  the  morning-glories,  which  the  lazy  sleeper  rarely 
sees.  The  new  Japanese  morning-glory  is  a  beautiful 
addition  to  the  fair  company  of  crystal  cups,  pink-tinted 
shells,  velvet  purples,  and  royal  crimsons  that  the  morn- 
ing-glory lover  has  ever  looked  for.  The  pillars  on  the 
porch  and  the  long  strings  made  taut  for  their  pleasure  are 


ii6       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

twined  by  ambitious  climbers  going  as  high  as  the  law 
allows. 

Out  from  the  heart-shaped  leaves  push  the  tightly 
twisted  rolls  of  buds,  wrapped  carefully  for  the  eventful 
instant  when,  without  warning,  they  gracefully  unfurl, 
turning  their  perfect  flowers  to  the  morning  sun.  The 
opening  of  morning-glories  creates  a  transformation  scene, 
the  green  expanse  being  flower-decked  while  you  catch 
your  breath  with  wonder. 

The  evening  primrose  at  sundown  is  as  prompt  as  a 
clock.  There  is  a  trio  of  the  wild  plants  just  over  the 
fence  standing  silent  and  without  interest.  If  you  know 
the  secret  you  may  imagine  that  the  heart  of  the  flower 
is  throbbing  in  haste,  as  it  bares  its  beauty  without  warn- 
ing, and  scarcely  has  it  spread  the  golden  petals  when  a 
thousand  moths  come  posthaste  to  fan  it  with  their  white 
wings  and  to  taste  of  its  nectar. 

July  has  its  compensations.  The  clematis  Jackmanii 
and  the  traveler's  joy  celebrate  their  own  time.  The  pur- 
ple clematis  Jackmanii  demands  that  it  should  have  a 
corner  all  its  own,  but  how  graceful  it  is  as  it  waves  its 
star  flowers  over  the  trellis  of  green !  The  traveler's  joy, 
another  clematis,  seems  to  gain  in  grace  as  the  days  grow 
colder,  and  heaps  hundreds  of  snowy  flowers  upon  its 
stems,  a  very  prodigal  of  its  own  wealth. 

As  the  days  pass,  the  trumpet  creeper  wins  its  way  into 
real  garden  favor;  but  if  you  would  see  it  at  its  very  best 


IN    MIDSUMMER   FIELDS        117 

go  to  some  country  town  where  flowers  are  loved,  and 
look  for  trumpet  creepers  on  every  woodshed  roof.  Neg- 
lected and  forgotten  shacks  are  bowers  of  green,  and 
above  them  wave  the  luxuriant  bunches  of  blossoms  of 
the  trumpet  vine. 

The  cobaea  and  Dutchman's  pipe,  as  well  as  the  scarlet 
runner,  put  out  flowers  in  July,  and  then  it  is  well  to 
take  note  of  those  one  would  like  to  call  his  own,  a  vine 
to  wreathe  an  unsightly  window  to  make  it  a  joy  to  the 
eyes,  an  awkward  corner  that  would  gain  by  a  clematis 
trellis,  or  a  sunny  side  to  a  porch  which  might  become  in- 
viting if  screened  by  a  thrifty  vine. 

In  the  calendar  of  the  wild-flower  lover,  April  is  the 
month  of  snowdrops  and  the  frail  Easter  flowers,  May 
puts  on  a  touch  of  color  in  winking  Marybuds,  cowslips, 
and  apple  bloom,  and  June  roses  have  stirred  many  a  poet 
to  song,  while  the  air  is  heavy  with  grape  blossoms  and 
syringas  and  drying  rose  leaves. 

After  the  flowers  of  early  spring  have  gone  their  ways 
the  July  hedgerows  adorn  themselves  in  traveler's  joy 
and  broideries  of  color  most  enchanting.  The  meadows 
have  put  off  their  paler  green  to  don  tints  rich  in  sugges- 
tions of  bronze  and  reds  from  the  ripened  flowers  of  the 
grass.  Here  and  there  in  the  lush  places,  where  a  spring 
bubbles  up  or  a  bit  of  bog  remains  from  days  of  long  ago, 
a  patch  of  Turk's-cap  lilies  flaunt  their  scarlet,  or  a  royal 
iris  holds  up  its  banners. 


ii8        THE    JOY    OF    GARDENS 

Flower  gathering  in  July  is  replete  with  satisfaction. 
The  days  are  warm,  and  lingering  in  the  fields  wraps  the 
senses  in  a  delicious  sense  of  well-being.  The  sunshine 
has  not  reached  the  fervid  heat  of  August,  nor  is  there 
the  chill  and  the  mist  that  reminded  one  that  ever- 
blithesome  May  had  an  edge  to  her  temper.  July  crowns 
the  summer  in  flowers  that  do  not  wither  easily,  and  per- 
mits us  to  feel  the  full  glory  of  the  ripening  year.  It  is 
then  we  like  to  go  back  to  the  old  home  and  to  revisit  the 
haunts  of  childhood. 

July  spreads  its  vines  and  full-blown  foliage  over  all, 
and  dresses  the  fields  in  a  prosperous  harvest.  On  every 
side  sound  the  notes  of  cicadas  and  crickets,  and  the  nest- 
ing birds  have  not  yet  ceased  their  singing. 

The  returning  wanderer,  who  had  left  the  farm  when 
a  child,  remembered  how  the  bouncing  Bets  straggled 
along  the  road  to  the  very  gateway.  Perhaps  they  would 
meet  him  now.  Sure  enough,  when  he  turns  the  corner  at 
the  crossroads  a  bouncing  Bet  looks  up  shyly  from  the 
roadside,  just  as  her  cousins  peep  from  every  byway  at 
this  season.  But  in  the  course  of  time  the  bouncing  Bets 
have  increased  in  family,  and  behold,  they  have  stolen 
through  the  gate,  and  a  careless  mower  has  permitted 
them  to  form  a  colony  in  a  miniature  hedge  all  along  the 
inner  fence. 

Out  on  the  roadside  the  mullein  has  opened  its  velvety 
leaves  in  a  perfect  rosette  and  is  training  its  tall  stems, 


IN   MIDSUMMER   FIELDS        119 

which  rise  with  the  aspiring  lines  of  the  great  candles  be- 
fore an  altar.  Here  and  there  and  everywhere  creeps  the 
camomile,  starred  with  its  yellow-centered  daisies. 
Among  it  the  smartwood  has  taken  root  and,  feeling  the 
impulse  of  summer,  has  hung  out  a  rose-tipped  and  grace- 
ful plume  of  prince's-feather.  Near  the  horseblock  live 
the  same  little  groups  of  butter  and  eggs,  and  the  toadflax 
that  keeps  its  snapdragon  flowerets  as  dainty  and  velvet- 
lipped  as  if  sheltered  in  the  garden. 

Along  this  same  roadway  are  islets  of  white  clover, 
sending  out  runners  and  tracing  pretty  patterns  over  what 
else  were  barren  ground.  Just  across  yonder  fence  acres 
of  red  clover  are  in  bloom,  with  an  army  of  bumblebees 
foraging  for  sweets  amid  the  blossoms.  The  fragrance 
comes  with  every  waft  of  the  breeze.  Here  it  was  that 
we  hunted  for  field  mice,  and  here  the  great  owl  hovered 
at  night  and  "came  down  like  a  wolf  on  the  fold." 

The  "Marsh,"  as  it  is  called,  was  the  favored  abiding 
place  of  many  flowers  in  June.  Now  in  the  distance  the 
scarlet  of  lilies  can  be  seen.  The  white  patch,  with  yel- 
low at  the  edges,  is  the  yarrow  bed,  and  where  the  hill- 
side rises  to  a  drier  stratum  the  pink  and  white  boneset  is 
in  view.  In  the  moister  places  the  asclepias  and  butterfly 
weeds  flourish  to  their  heart's  content.  There  are  more 
of  them  to-day  than  twenty  years  ago,  when  a  child 
wandered  among  them. 

The  yellow  sneezeweed  grew  on  the  dry  upland — a 


120       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

mass  of  sunny  yellow  painted  against  a  clump  of  dark 
witch-hazel  hints  that  it  may  be  there  to-day.  In  a  cer- 
tain opening  in  the  grove  the  evening  primroses  kept  com- 
pany all  by  themselves.  No  blossom  had  a  clearer  yellow 
or  a  daintier  structure.  In  the  fence  corners  the  more  ple- 
beian assemble  among  the  tall  grass — the  coarse  cone  flow- 
ers, some  gaillardias,  and  spikes  of  warm  blue  vervain  and 
Indian  clover  and  wild  parsnip. 

From  this  fence  corner  one  can  look  down  the  creek, 
where  grew  the  cowslips  of  young  days.  A  warm  March 
afternoon,  when  the  first  blush  of  green  was  stealing 
across  the  meadow,  the  discovery  of  the  cowslip  was  re- 
corded. A  shallow  black  pool  covered  the  bog,  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  blackness  were  leaves  of  tender  green  and 
golden-cupped  flowers  which  seemed  to  have  stolen  their 
sheen  from  the  gold  of  the  springtide.  The  long  stems 
twined  in  wreaths  and  cowslip  balls — for  they  were  cow- 
slips according  to  the  old  botany  book. 

It  was  a  never-to-be-forgotten  event — the  golden  hour 
of  cowslip  acquaintance.  It  was  fairy  gold,  however,  for 
it  vanished  when  the  child  with  the  old  botany  book 
found  that,  according  to  another  flower-namer,  this  "cow- 
slip" was  a  marsh  marigold,  and  the  primula  veris,  the 
"primrose"  of  her  affections,  was  in  reality  the  cowslip  of 
correct  classification.  A  stubborn  affection  retained  the 
primrose  on  the  river's  brim  a  primrose  ever,  and  the 
cowslip  the  yellow  of  marsh  marigold.  The  old  botany 


IN    MIDSUMMER   FIELDS        121 

book,  faithless  in  its  mission,  was  thrown  into  the  fire,  for 
it  had  misnamed  and  had  led  astray  ideals.  As  life  went 
on  the  cowslip  illusion  remained.  No  flower  in  all  floral 
history  has  a  more  contradictory  record. 

Another  May,  and  a  cowslip  hunt  led  the  way  in  tri- 
umph to  a  colony  of  dodecatheons,  shooting  stars,  the 
"cowslip"  of  many  botanists,  a  flower  pale  and  rosy,  with 
a  beaked  tip,  and  called  by  the  children  "bird-bills." 

And  when  another  season  came,  and  the  same  cowslip 
lover  went  hunting  the  fairy  flower  of  youth,  a  learned 
botanist  led  the  way  through  dark  woods  and  wet  places, 
through  bracken  and  moss,  where  an  opening  let  the  sun- 
shine in,  and  there,  bluer  than  the  sky,  drooped  the  bells 
of  mertensia  virginica. 

"Behold  the  cowslip,"  he  cried,  "and  I  am  the  only 
man  in  these  parts  that  knows  the  true  cowslip !" 

The  flower  lover  was  silent.  Let  the  Persians  call  their 
cyclamens  violets  or  cowslips,  a  rose  by  any  other  name; 
time  had  taught  her  that  flower-naming  was  as  much  an 
invention  as  the  christening  of  stars,  and  that  the  yellow 
cowslip  dared  hold  its  sway  unshaken.  For  had  not  a 
well-thumbed  old  botany  book  named  it,  and  the  great 
authorities  hinted  that  it  was  "sometimes  so  called"  ? 


A  CARNIVAL  OF  GOLD 

IF  ever  the  face  of  nature  smiles  it  does  so  in  harvest 
time.  The  scant  acres  of  suburban  prairie  don  a  gypsy 
garb  of  ripened  grains,  and  lie  peaceful  and  contented  in 
the  sunshine  of  the  long  afternoons.  It  is  too  soon  for 
scattered  burs  and  scratching  thistles,  and  one  may  stretch 
full  length  in  the  grass,  nestle  the  head  on  a  fragrant  tuft, 
and  become  part  of  the  sweet  idleness  of  the  day. 

Life  is  so  short  that  we  may  count  it  among  the  sins  of 
omission  if  the  hours  go  by  and  we  fail  to  make  use  of  the 
best  that  summer  gives,  staying  within  city  walls  when 
nature  calls  at  the  end  of  a  suburban  car  line.  Of  course 
there  is  the  effort  of  making  a  rush  at  the  noon  hour  of 
Saturday,  but  shortly  the  thick  of  the  city  is  left  behind, 
and  we  may  be  in  the  heart  of  the  woods. 

The  country  friend,  owning  a  farm,  little  realizes  the 
gifts  he  bestows  upon  the  city  prisoner  in  a  week-end  holi- 
day. The  getting  away  from  the  pressure  of  noise,  of 
thick  atmosphere,  of  the  bustling  crowds,  puts  new  spirit 
into  the  soul,  freshens  the  point  of  view,  adds  to  the  stock 
of  experience,  and  stores  the  memory  with  a  thousand 
things  seen  and  heard,  as  nothing  else  can  do. 
122 


A   CARNIVAL   OF   GOLD         123 

Out  on  the  country  road  and  in  the  open  fields  man  is 
another  being.  He  enters  the  world  of  the  trees,  the  feed- 
ing cattle,  the  wayside  weeds,  and  the  crows  flying  over- 
head. He  is  one  of  them. 

When  the  whippoorwill  calls  at  night  it  has  its  message 
for  him.  All  the  paraphernalia  so  necessary  to  his  exist- 
ence in  the  city  is  useless  here.  He  needs  but  ask  for  a 
roof  to  shelter  from  the  heat  and  the  wet,  enough  to  eat 
— it  matters  not  what — and  the  liberty  to  work  or  rest. 
The  tyranny  of  fashion,  clothes,  fine  furniture,  hamper- 
ing customs,  are  as  naught.  He  forgets  all  about  them 
and  turns  back  to  the  play  with  nature  that  went  on  in 
the  Garden  of  Eden  before  the  breaking  of  laws  brought 
the  penalty  of  hard  labor. 

Going  aberrying  is  a  delight  of  July.  The  waste  acres, 
with  hazel  brush  and  scattered  briers  above  a  turf  of  good 
pasture  grass,  are  as  clean  as  any  park.  The  long  switches 
of  the  raspberry  and  blackberry  brambles  hand  out  their 
fruits  to  any  one  who  will  take  them.  The  barricading 
thorns  were  intended  to  ward  off  man  and  beast,  but  the 
favored  guests  of  the  berry  patches — the  birds  gathering 
in  flocks  and  nesting  in  the  clumps  of  trees  and  bush — 
are  welcomed  to  the  feast.  The  berry  patch  is  the  haunt 
of  haunts  to  the  bird  lover,  for  here  he  may  see  the 
winged  songsters  on  a  frolic,  and  hear  them  sing  the  most 
joyous  songs  of  living. 

A  host  of  queer  relations  have  assembled  in  the  berry 


124       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

patch.  The  wild  cherry  hangs  its  shining  fruit  overhead. 
In  a  shady  place  about  the  roots  creeps  the  wild  straw- 
berry; a  rod  away  is  a  plum  hung  with  ripened  fruit, 
and  here  and  there  and  everywhere  the  brambles  of  the 
wild  rose  embrace  those  of  the  raspberry,  the  blackberry, 
and  the  gooseberry.  The  perfume  of  sweetbrier  fills  the 
air. 

The  rose  tribe  is  not  one  to  forget  its  poor  relations. 
Indeed,  it  is  a  hard  struggle  to  find  the  poor  relations,  if 
any  at  all  exist.  The  rose  family  seems  to  have  been 
endowed  with  the  peculiar  virtue  of  looking  out  for  itself 
and  its  progeny,  and  borrowing  aid  from  all  creation, 
while  still  retaining  the  affection  of  all.  What  rarer 
virtue  could  any  climber  in  the  scale  of  life  pray  for? 

The  lowliest  kinsmen  of  the  tribe,  the  cinquefoil  and 
yellow-blossomed  weeds,  with  hard,  roselike,  seeded  fruit, 
are  established  in  little  colonies  on  the  turf.  Next  higher 
in  the  scale  above  these  is  the  strawberry,  its  rose-petaled 
blossoms  proclaiming  its  place  on  the  family  tree.  But 
how  marvelously  has  it  looked  after  the  future,  dressing 
its  dainty  seeds  upon  a  luscious  pulp  to  tempt  the  appetite 
of  the  most  jaded  robin  or  surfeited  catbird! 

In  the  clover  field,  on  the  hilltop,  the  bees  are  bu:-y 
transferring  the  pollen '  while  collecting  their  bags  of 
honey.  And  down  in  the  berry  patch  the  birds  dt  'Meir 
share  of  work,  in  planting  seeds  under  the  wage  of  a 
square  meal.  All  is  harmony  in  this  exchange  of  favors. 


HOUSE  AND  GARDEN  AT  BAR  HARBOR,  MAINE 


A   CARNIVAL   OF   GOLD         125 

Next  higher  in  the  scheme  are  the  black  and  red  rasp- 
berries, in  which  nature  has  tried  still  another  plan  of 
setting  every  seed  in  its  own  delicious  cup  of  juice.  Those 
of  the  strawberries  are  gathered  over  the  surface  of  one 
pulpy  shape.  By  their  peculiar  arrangement  the  black 
and  red  raspberries  are  enabled  to  get  along  with  fewer 
seeds,  protecting  them  with  the  thorns  from  all  but  the 
birds  and  daring  human  hands,  making  a  brave  headway 
in  the  struggle  for  existence. 

The  haw;%  white  thorns,  and  dog  roses  bear  a  fruit 
which  is  a  modified  berry  with  fleshy  envelope  to  invite 
biids  to  distribution.  If  the  imagination  can  still  hold 
fast  to  the  analogy,  slight  though  the  thread  may  seem, 
it  can  travel  to  the  plum  tree,  the  cherry,  and  the  wild 
apple  in  the  grove,  on  to  the  queen  of  the  royal  line  of  the 
rose  family — the  true  rose  of  the  garden. 

The  wild  cherry  and  the  plum  mark  the  greatest  econ- 
omy of  seed.  Returning  to  the  little  red  strawberry 
nestling  among  its  leaves,  one  may  count  half  a  hundred 
seeds,  perhaps  more,  on  its  fleshy  pulp;  the  raspberry  at 
its  best  may  have  twoscore,  and  the  apple  six  to  ten,  and 
the  haw  but  two,  and  plvm  and  cherry  but  one. 

"It  is  a  wonder  that  pygmy  man  wonders,"  meditates 
the  philosopher.  And  in  a  wild  flight  of  the  imagination 
we  venture  a  query  if  in  this  vast  mysterious  scheme 
nature  herself  is  learning  by  experiment,  and  playing  with 
the  breeding  of  fruits  to  discover  where  energy  may  be 


126       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

conserved  and  the  species  saved.  The  berry  patch  is  a 
fertile  field  for  thought.  Its  variety  is  so  infinite  that  the 
hungry  materialist  seeking  his  dinner  may  be  satisfied,  the 
scientific  inquirer  find  meat  to  his  liking,  the  poet  beauty 
for  his  verse,  the  painter  pictures  for  the  eyes,  and  the 
tired  man  all  things  for  a  holiday. 

Berry  picking  is  hard  work  under  the  guise  of  play. 
No  one  ever  complains  of  its  weariness.  And  well  it 
would  be  for  us  if  the  day's  labor  at  all  times  could  be 
turned  to  play  by  overlooking  the  stubble  that  blocks  the 
way  and  the  brambles  that  scratch  the  hands  of  the  hardy 
adventurer  in  search  of  success. 

As  the  summer  mellows  it  seems  as  if  earth  has  stolen 
gold  from  the  sun  and  decked  herself  like  a  queen  to  idle 
languidly  in  the  long,  bright  days.  The  grainfields  in 
the  wide  country  farms  reflect  a  yellowed  light  appearing 
to  the  half-closed  eyes  like  sheets  of  burnished  gold 
framed  in  the  green  of  luxuriant  lanes,  fringed  with  a 
tracery  of  wild  sunflowers,  burnished  and  polished  like 
disks  of  precious  metal. 

Nor  does  the  trickery  of  decoration  stop  here.  The 
same  elf  weaving  the  world-design  has  waved  its  wand 
above  our  flower  borders,  and  as  we  draw  aside  the  cur- 
tains to  catch  the  fresh  breeze  of  early  morning  and  to 
gain  a  fuller  hearing  of  the  wren  singing  to  her  nestlings 
from  her  downy  home  under  the  eaves,  the  dew-gemmed 
blossoms  of  sunny  flowers  weave  a  pattern  of  gold  lace 


A   CARNIVAL   OF   GOLD         127 

the  length  and  breadth  of  the  little  plantation.  They 
seem  to  have  decided  in  some  mute  way  to  come  all  at 
once  and  to  make  a  festival  of  celestial  yellows  to  echo 
what  wild  life  was  doing  along  the  highways.  The  color 
notes  shade  from  the  palest  canary  hue,  matching  the 
breast  of  a  little  finch  that  comes  to  sing  in  the  locust 
bower,  and  deepen  and  deepen  to  the  bronze  gold  of  the 
lilies  and  the  flames  of  the  tritoma. 

None  of  these  was  planted  with  a  view  to  garden  color. 
Indeed,  the  garden  color  faddist  works  in  the  spirit  of  an 
artistic  upstart  who  coldly  sorts  his  seeds  and  plans  as  a 
modiste  does  over  a  set  of  trimmings,  or  as  a  rug  weaver 
deliberates  concerning  a  finished  design  to  please  the 
fashion  of  the  hour.  Garden  enthusiasts  are  born,  and 
garden  architects  are  made.  The  first  plant  seeds  in  a 
passion  to  bring  to  light  treasured  friends  among  flow- 
ers, and  the  latter  forget  the  individual  in  the  pattern 
that  may  fall  upon  the  eye  during  blooming  time. 

It  is  a  happy  chance  when  nature  comes  to  the  rescue, 
as  she  does  to  the  most  careless  planters.  If  the  enthu- 
siast has  been  generous  in  his  choice,  and  far-seeing  to 
select  flowers  for  the  procession  of  the  months,  he  can 
depend  on  nature  to  keep  garden  color  changing  as  the 
prism  of  the  rainbow.  It  will  spread  in  beauty  the  rose 
hues  of  June,  shifting  the  kaleidoscope  through  the  yel- 
lows of  midsummer,  the  flames  of  late  August,  and 
mingling  purple  and  crimson  and  gold  when  September 


128       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

arranged  the  closing  scene.  In  the  weeks  that  have  gone 
the  little  drama  has  played  through  several  acts,  grant- 
ing surprises,  undreamed  of  at  night,  which  burst  upon 
the  eyes  with  the  dew  of  early  day. 

As  golden-skirted  dancers  awaiting  a  signal  appear  in 
groups,  bowing  sweetly  at  the  word,  the  long-stemmed, 
star-eyed  blossoms  sway  in  midsummer  zephyrs  and  dis- 
play their  graces.  All  have  an  ancestry  honored  in  old 
gardens,  and  inherit  a  character  turning  its  back  on  dis- 
appointments. Who  has  ever  put  in  the  seed  of  calliop- 
sis,  well-beloved  black-eyed  Susan,  and  failed  to  find  her 
keeping  the  tryst  in  the  harvest  time"?  The  gold  of  wiz- 
ards and  necromancers  was  used  to  fashion  her  leaves,  and 
the  richest  bronze  in  all  flowerdom  adorns  the  center  of 
her  disk.  The  coreopsis,  "Golden  Glory,"  is  a  sister  plant 
ever  to  be  relied  upon,  and  from  heart  to  the  tip  of  its 
petals  the  most  radiant  sunshine. 

Every  year,  as  soon  as  the  reapers  enter  the  oats  in  the 
yellow  fields,  calliopsis  and  coreopsis  have  grown  to  luxu- 
riant bushy  heights,  each  tip  bearing  its  flowers  like  a 
Christmas  tree  with  gilt  stars.  On  the  ground  below,  the 
California  poppies,  eschscholtzia — the  "Golden  West" — 
weave  a  tapestry  of  lovely  color,  a  strain  of  June  sun- 
shine at  break  of  day,  stimulating  to  the  senses  and  giving 
silent  promises  of  hope.  Clouds  of  sorrow  are  banished 
in  the  presence  of  these  light-hearted  notes  of  color  which 
have  a  psychic  influence  hard  to  understand,  but  so 


A   CARNIVAL   OF   GOLD         129 

joyous  that  none  can  turn  back  their  message  of  faith  to 
the  soul. 

The  yellow  sprite  repeats  its  scheme  beyond  a  misty 
cloud  of  gypsophila,  in  a  lowlier  mass  of  calendulas 
stocky  and  sturdy,  varying  the  yellows  from  pale  lemon 
to  copper;  and  as  in  music  the  melody  will  flow  on  and 
on  to  culminate  in  a  splendid  harmony,  so  the  golden 
thread  enters  a  web  amid  a  clump  of  French  marigolds 
spreading  their  living  hues  above  emerald  foliage,  a 
green  of  deep-sea  depths  brightening  the  prisoned  sun- 
shine in  the  frilled  flowers. 

For  the  sake  of  contrast  the  white  Shasta  daisies  per- 
mit a  snowy  interval,  and  then  the  yellow  ribbon  drops 
to  the  ground  and  climbs  the  fence  in  a  wilderness  of 
nasturtiums.  It  repeats  every  yellow  note  known  in  the 
scale  of  color,  and  plays  upon  them  with  variations. 
When  twilight  falls  they  exhale  the  finest  perfume,  which 
is  wanting  among  the  other  yellow  blossoms  of  this  sea- 
son, though  the  marigolds  have  a  bitter,  pungent  odor  not 
at  all  unpleasant  if  you  accept  it  alone  and  out  of  doors. 
The  golden-leafed  feverfew  has  crept  from  its  bed  to  act 
as  a  restraining  friend  to  the  nasturtiums,  and  a  little 
aloof  on  the  other  side  of  its  rich  growth  rise  the  pride  of 
present  days,  the  giant  snapdragons,  velvety  and  golden- 
lipped,  paler  than  the  nasturtiums  in  yellows,  but  radiant 
as  the  purest  lemon  tints  among  flowers. 

Here  and  there  lesser  plants  join  the  carnival  of  gold. 


130       THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

It  seems  as  if  they  knew  the  day  and  the  hour,  for  of  all 
the  proud  dahlias  the  yellow  and  white  alone  are  out. 
The  sole  gladiolus  in  blossom  is  yellow  throated,  the 
canna  bed  holds  a  yellow  signal  from  amid  the  great 
mound  of  calladiums,  where  the  yellow  day  lilies  shake 
their  bells  at  the  base  to  warn  the  brilliant  portulacas 
creeping  at  their  feet  that  they  are  lowly  things  and  chil- 
dren of  a  night.  The  gaillardias  sport  the  darkest  of 
velvet  browns  shaded  from  orange,  and  next  is  a  golden 
privet  bush,  and,  in  the  greenery  of  plants  long  since 
stopped  blooming,  rise  the  tritomas,  "red-hot  pokers,"  a 
bit  ahead  of  their  season  and  turning  the  flame  color  to 
newer  tints  of  rose  reflections. 

Towering  above  all  are  the  first  sunflowers,  rooted  out- 
side the  garden  pale,  and  far  down  the  road  you  may 
follow  the  cheerful  call  of  tansy,  goldenrod,  evening  prim- 
rose, helianthus,  rudbeckias,  jewel  weed,  the  dainty  butter 
and  eggs  tripping  in  meadow  and  on  hilltop,  where  the 
mullein  torches  stand  to  catch  the  last  gleams  of  the  set- 
ting sun  in  nature's  midsummer  festival  of  yellows. 


THE  FRIENDSHIP  OF  FLOWERS 


from  your  labors,"  cried  the  master  of  the 
garden  from  his  seat  near  the  radiant  phlox  to  the 
worker  with  the  watering  can  going  to  and  fro  after  dusk 
among  the  thirsty  flowers.  "Your  garden  has  been 
bought  with  a  price  of  hard  labor.  Consider  the  lilies 
of  the  field;  who  waters  them*?  Who  hunts  the  red 
spider  on  the  wild  rose"?  Who  traps  the  slug  or  nets  the 
butterfly  on  the  prairies?"  But  the  mistress  of  the  gar- 
den heeded  not  and  went  her  way,  while  the  listening 
toad  under  the  petunias,  playing  his  tongue  in  a  cloud 
of  gnats,  blinked  his  bright  eyes  and  thought  nothing, 
What  was  restless  man  to  him,  guardian  of  the  domain? 

The  mignonette  rustled  its  crisp  leaves  in  the  shower 
of  cool  water,  the  heliotrope  drank  greedily  with  its  roots 
and  prided  itself  on  the  showing  it  had  made  under  the 
hot  afternoon  sun,  and  every  garden  thing  was  grateful 
for  the  treat  of  a  miniature  shower  on  the  dusty  soil  be- 
fore the  dews  began  to  wash  their  leaves. 

In  village  wanderings  we  may  discover  a  garden  in 
which  flowers  fight  for  existence  as  weeds  in  a  wilderness. 
It  is  then  that  we  talk  of  them  growing  according  to  their 


132        THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

own  sweet  will,  when  reason  tells  us  that  if  certain  sturdy 
plants  do  bloom,  the  chance  which  has  made  them  fair  to 
look  upon  and  caused  them  to  flourish,  without  many 
scars  in  the  battle,  is  "direction  which  we  cannot  see,"  an 
invisible  fortunate  circumstance. 

In  a  forgotten  village  in  an  Eastern  mountain  valley 
was  an  old  garden  filled  with  what  some  call  permanent 
plants;  that  is,  enduring  perennials,  self-seeding  annuals, 
and  members  of  the  lily  tribe,  reproducing  their  bulbs. 
The  broad  borders  of  white  day  lilies — funkia  subcordata 
— edged  a  brick-paved  walk  with  shining  rosettes  of 
green,  above  which  swung  the  fragrant  trumpets  in  their 
season.  Behind  the  iron  fretwork  fence  was  a  hedge  of 
the  white  queens  of  the  meadow  from  July  until  frost, 
crowned  with  snowy  pyramids  of  bloom;  and  along  the 
walls  in  spring  the  columbine  waved  trumpets  before  the 
budding  leaves  of  hardy  late  chrysanthemums. 

The  neighbors  always  stopped  to  look  over  the  white 
phlox  into  the  wilderness  at  the  clumps  of  gillyflowers 
and  pinks  getting  along  in  harmony  where  hollyhocks  blos- 
somed in  increasing  numbers  every  year,  and  the  Johnny- 
jump-ups  traveled  in  endless  procession  in  and  out  among 
them  all. 

Every  one  "knew  the  story  of  the  broken-hearted  recluse 
who  lived  behind  the  closed  shutters,  and  every  one 
lamented  that  for  ten  years  no  man,  not  even  the  useful 
village  si ave-of -all-work,  had  ever  passed  the  padlocked 


A  GARDEN   AT  WINNETKA,   ILLINOIS 


FRIENDSHIP    OF   FLOWERS     133 

gate  to  spade  and  hoe  in  an  inclosure  always  in  bloom. 
"They  never  touch  a  thing,"  said  a  gossip.  "They  let 
them  grow  wild,  and  I  'd  give  a  basket  of  eggs  for  a  slip 
of  that  climbing  rose." 

The  city  person  marveled  at  a  garden  that  in  ten — nay, 
in  twenty  years — had  changed  so  little  without  a  restrain- 
ing or  encouraging  hand.  No  place  in  all  the  world  could 
rival  the  ribbon  of  rose  woven  by  the  May  pinks,  no 
modest  garden  could  boast  of  gayer  color  in  poppies  in 
June,  or  cleaner  day  lilies  when  all  the  rest  of  the  world 
was  battling  with  slugs. 

"It  grows  of  itself.  Those  flowers  sow  their  own  seed 
and  spread  their  own  roots,"  said  the  village  gossip 
decidedly.  "I  know  that  nobody  touches  them  or  even 
comes  out  to  smell  them.  Everybody  goes  in  the  back 
way,  and  they  receive  no  company." 

For  all  the  fiction  of  city  breeding,  the  city  person  takes 
greatest  pleasure  in  early  rising  in  the  country  and  stroll- 
ing off  to  the  fresh  meadows  before  the  world  is  awake. 
One  morning,  going  abroad  with  rod  and  line  as  the  sun 
was  gilding  the  misty  mountain  tops  and  the  village  still 
lay  asleep,  the  way  led  past  the  old  garden,  and  then  the 
secret  was  out  why  the  growing  prospered. 

Two  ancient  women  in  black  with  garden  gloves  were 
busy  with  might  and  main,  clipping,  trimming,  digging, 
and  watering,  and  at  the  sound  of  an  echoing  footstep  on 
the  brick  pavement  they  silently  flitted  indoors  behind  the 


134       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

useless  knocker  of  glittering  brass,  and  the  garden  was 
alone  to  grow  as  it  pleased.  When  it  seemed  the  in- 
truder had  passed  on  at  this  unheard-of  hour,  they  were 
out  at  work  again,  looking  suspiciously  up  and  down  to 
spy  who  had  disturbed  their  labors. 

Some  imagine  that  the  perennial  phlox,  queens  of  the 
meadow,  will  grow  if  left  alone.  How  about  your  boys 
and  girls,  and  your  Irish-setter  pup,  your  blooded  colt,  or 
angora  kitten?  The  giant  perennial  phlox  need  care  for 
their  kind  too.  They  require  a  restraining  hand  to  bring 
out  their  points  of  good  breeding  and  to  look  their  pret- 
tiest before  company.  The  discipline  of  pinching  back 
brings  out  their  best  appearance. 

One  thing  you  may  be  sure  of;  that  is,  gratitude,  a 
virtue  not  always  conspicuous  in  a  higher  scale  of  crea- 
tion. The  nightly  prowl  with  the  watering  can  and 
shears  gets  its  thanks.  It  is  a  pretty  fancy  to  believe  in 
responsiveness,  to  have  faith  that  the  flowers  know  when 
you  prune  away  the  dry  leaves,  till  the  earth  about  the 
roots  to  discourage  grubbers,  and  shake  the  flower  heads 
to  dislodge  a  possible  caterpiller  which  may  be  nest- 
making  there. 

All  these  things  the  queens  of  the  meadow  and  other 
blossoming  members  of  your  colony  need,  and  the  true 
gardener  finds  a  joy  in  the  work  which  never  comes  to  the 
idle  person  sitting  on  the  porch  and  watching  the  labor. 
He  may  call  all  his  own,  and  take  toll  of  flowers  for  his 


FRIENDSHIP   OF   FLOWERS     135 

buttonhole,  but  the  weeding,  watering  gardener  knows 
secret  pleasures  not  to  be  his. 

Let  us  sing  praises  of  queens  of  the  meadow,  the  peren- 
nial phlox  growing  in  tall  clumps,  the  flower  head  a 
bouquet.  Because  they  rarely  appear  in  the  florists'  win- 
dows, never  in  artificial  flowers,  and  rarely  in  houses,  the 
amateur  of  limited  opportunities  does  not  know  their 
beauty.  The  appearance  of  the  first  bloom  is  the  signal 
for  a  celebration  in  our  garden.  For  years  the  fragrant 
white,  the  purest  among  flowers,  was  prime  favorite,  and 
is  still,  granting  honors  to  a  fine  salmon  rose  and  to  a  rich 
crimson-red  variety. 

The  family  of  hardy  phlox  is  distinguished  for  its  color 
and  novelty,  the  talents  for  design  noted  in  the  phlox 
drummondii  being  carried  along  in  star  eyes  and  fine  diffu- 
sions of  white  and  lilac,  carmine,  violet,  or  crimson,  or 
appearing  in  a  startling  contrast  of  the  new  French 
species  which  has  a  glowing  orange-scarlet  disk  with  a 
blood-red  eye  and  other  strange  arrangements. 

The  garden  book  says  that  phlox  are  "not  too  particu- 
lar," but  has  it  not  been  your  observation,  as  it  has  been 
mine,  that  some  persons  "not  too  particular"  thrive  best 
and  develop  sweeter  graces  if  given  a  little  of  the  atten- 
tion their  shyness  forbids  the  asking  for"? 

As  the  gate  swings  shut  on  a  departing  guest,  and  its 
lock  springs  fast  and  the  bolt  is  speedily  shot  into  place, 
we  either  enter  a  red-letter  day  in  our  calendar  of  pleasant 


136       THE    JOY    OF    GARDENS 

memories  or  we  sigh  for  the  waters  of  forgetfulness  to 
wash  away  the  recollections  of  the  one  just  gone  who  left 
shadows  of  regret  in  the  desecration  of  the  silence  with 
trivial  talk. 

It  may  not  have  been  the  echoes  of  gossip,  better  un- 
said, which  stirred  our  reflections ;  perhaps  it  was  only  the 
idle  chatter  that  in  its  way  is  as  much  out  of  place  as  a 
rag-time  song  from  a  graphophone  when  the  wren  in  sing- 
ing her  vespers  above  the  low  harmonies  of  an  insect 
orchestra  in  the  grass. 

Brief  though  it  might  have  been,  it  was  enough  to  re- 
mind us  that  the  choice  of  friends  is  an  art.  We  will  put 
up  with  all  sorts  and  conditions  of  personality  with 
humorous  indulgence  on  a  railway  journey  or  at  a  public 
gathering,  because  they  are  actors  in  the  human  comedy, 
but  when  we  visit  an  art  gallery,  listen  to  music,  set  forth 
on  a  country  ramble,  or  would  enjoy  the  sweets  of  a  gar- 
den, then  it  is  time  to  choose,  and  to  beware  lest  those 
enter  who  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread. 

How  often  has  it  been  that  our  goodness  of  heart  has 
been  its  own  undoing  and  our  hospitable  instincts  have 
overruled  our  judgment.  Our  generosity  is  sadly  de- 
ceived; the  guest  we  invited  to  commune  with  our  lilies 
could  not  free  himself  from  the  wit  of  a  scandal,  nor 
what  he  had  heard  at  a  play,  and  all  our  ingenuity  to 
turn  the  talk  from  fashion  to  flowers  was  in  vain. 

Such  disappointments  are  lashes  in  the  discipline  of 


v'-. 


FRIENDSHIP    OF   FLOWERS     137 

experience,  and  good  sense  takes  warning  with  a  resolve 
to  be  choice  in  garden  company,  with  a  sudden  recollec- 
tion that  there  have  been  those,  some  two  or  three,  in 
whose  presence  we  rise  to  higher  levels  and  to  whom  a 
flowery  inclosure  is  a  sanctuary.  This  friendship  needs 
no  words — an  exchange  of  glances,  a  clasp  of  the  hand, 
and  the  afternoon  may  pass  quickly,  the  shadows  grow 
long,  and  the  sun  rays  creep  higher  and  higher  on  the  wall 
ere  the  gate  closes  on  a  promise  to  meet  soon  again. 

Then  we  understand  the  reminders  of  gentle  Izaak 
Walton  on  fishermen  choosing  their  company,  and  we 
vow  that  gardeners  should  do  likewise,  permitting  none  to 
taste  of  their  salad  or  listen  to  the  hum  of  the  bees  under 
the  hollyhocks  except  a  kindred  soul  in  harmony  with  the 
best  that  is  in  us. 

The  changing  procession  of  perennials  has  brought  an 
interlude  when  they  are  blossomless  and  seem  to  be  hold- 
ing their  breath  while  the  tall  lilies  reign  supreme.  Soon 
after  the  lilies  of  the  valley  stopped  blooming  in  May 
the  other  lily  buds  began  to  swell.  The  quaint  little 
tigridias  crept  in  and  out,  holding  out  their  offerings  for 
recognition,  and  the  tall  white  lilies  made  a  first  appear- 
ance, shyly  enough,  in  June. 

In  a  spot  where  the  sun  shines  warmest  the  first  lilium 
candidum,  the  white  madonna  lily,  began  to  unfurl  on 
Ascension  Thursday,  and,  counting  those  on  the  shady 
side  of  the  house,  there  will  be  white  lilies  right  along 


138       THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

until  after  the  feast  of  the  Annunciation,  which,  accord- 
ing to  tradition,  they  must  celebrate.  No  other  lily  has  as 
many  pet  names  or  is  as  faithful  to  old  gardens,  multiply- 
ing and  spreading  regardless  of  hard  frosts.  Whether 
this  fragrant  lily  is  a  candidum  or  not,  the  record  refuses 
to  say.  Indeed,  a  certain  woman  nearly  came  to  a  pitched 
battle  of  words  with  a  long-bearded  gardener  whom  one 
had  never  accused  of  sentiment  by  calling  a  luxuriant  tall 
white  lily  a  candidum  when  none  such  could  be  found  in 
a  catalogue. 

"Not  so,"  cried  this  stubborn  man,  backing  against  his 
own  hedge;  "these  are  St.  Josephs,  those  St.  Annes,  those 
of  the  Ascension,  and  these  of  the  Annunciation,"  while 
the  sharpest-eyed  member  of  the  party  could  not  dis- 
tinguish a  difference  among  them,  and  any  one  was  a  lily 
sheaf  fit  for  the  gentle  hand  of  one  honored  among 
women. 

Bookish  amateurs  are  wedded  to  Latin  names  mean- 
ingless to  the  flower  lover  brought  up  on  the  homely, 
old-fashioned  terms.  The  only  benefit  that  comes  from 
memorizing  them  is  that  they  form  a  universal  nomen- 
clature, a  familiar  language  known  to  gardeners  whether 
in  England,  France,  Germany,  or  Norway,  and  the  pro- 
fessional who  looks  down  on  the  humble  house  gardener 
will  give  her  respect  if  she  approaches  him  with  a  high- 
sounding  Latin  phrase,  rich  in  resonant  vowels. 

Hint  to  him  of  a  glorious  tiger  lily  you  know  at  home 


FRIENDSHIP   OF   FLOWERS     139 

or  have  seen  in  his  confines,  and  his  indifference  will  chill 
you  to  the  marrow ;  but  talk  softly  of  tigrinum  splendens 
or  let  murmurs  of  spedosum  rubrum  or  lilium  auratum 
fall  from  your  lips,  and  at  once  he  will  melt,  give  you 
the  grip  of  the  brotherhood,  and  bid  you  welcome. 

To  return  to  the  lily  beds,  it  is  quite  remarkable  how  a 
stalk  or  two  will  give  mystery  and  romance  as  well  as 
beauty  to  the  humblest  inclosure.  The  iris  is  a  distant  re- 
lation; and  hastily  passing  in  review  the  lilies  you  have 
seen  and  lilies  read  of,  is  there  another  flower  species  more 
wonderful  in  variety,  more  curious  in  quality  and  charms? 

Just  now  the  yellow  and  tawny  orange  lilies  parade 
the  fields  to  make  pictures  of  color  with  ripened  harvests 
and  bronzed  grasses.  The  lilium  canadense,  straggling 
carelessly  from  disorderly  blades  at  the  roots,  has  the 
appearance  of  longing  to  escape  from  gardens  to  run 
after  the  Turkp's-cap  camping  in  the  meadows.  The 
plantain  lily  (funkia)  is  the  most  obedient  grower  of  all, 
making  it  a  pleasure  to  set  prim  rosettes  of  shining  leaves 
along  the  edges  of  paths  or  as  borders  to  the  beds. 

The  lilium  spedosum  rubrum,  the  crimson-banded 
lily,  and  the  tigrinum  splendent,  most  gorgeous  of  tiger 
lilies,  are  aristocrats  from  tip  to  toe.  It  is  customary  to 
set  them  in  clumps  of  nine,  the  mystic  number  of  the 
muses,  and  the  rubrum  looks  its  best  in  the  early  morning 
sun  when  the  dew  is  exhaled  from  the  grass,  while  the 
tigrinum  splendens,  so  royal  and  gorgeous,  is  planted 


THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

where  it  may  enjoy  midday  heat  and  catch  the  lingering 
rays  of  later  afternoon  to  keep  on  fire  the  warmth  of  its 
vivid,  orange-red,  mystic  markings  of  purple  and  black. 
The  liking  for  lilies  is  the  test  of  the  stranger.  Does 
he  treat  the  high-bred  virility  of  the  tiger  lily  with  respect 
and  turn  toward  the  feminine  loveliness  of  speciosum  ru- 
brum  with  deference,  we  may  know  that  he  is  in  tune 
with  our  lares  and  penates,  and  open  wide  the  gate  to  bid 
welcome  as  to  a  returning  guest. 


A   GARDEN    AT   ARDMORE,    PENNSYLVANIA 


HERBS  O'  GRACE 

MY  neighbor,  a  goodwife,  believes  that  the  foxes  of 
the  field  and  the  birds  of  the  air  know  the  herbs 
of  their  salvation.  In  an  old  book  we  read  that  "the 
swallow  cureth  her  dim  eyes  with  celandine,  the  weasel 
knoweth  well  the  virtue  of  herb  grace,  the  dove  the  ver- 
vain and  the  dogge  useth  a  kind  of  grass."  Such  was  the 
confidence  that  guided  the  planting  of  our  herb  garden, 
whose  simples  saved  the  doctor's  bills. 

One  of  the  daintiest  of  all  the  plantlets  to  push  its  head 
above  ground  in  the  spring  is  the  rue — as  Ophelia  names 
it,  "herb  o'  grace  o'  Sundays" — because  its  dried  stems 
made  the  brush  to  sprinkle  holy  water  upon  the  faithful 
at  church  doors.  Bitter  as  it  is,  and  pungent  to  the  nos- 
trils, it  furnished  four  and  eighty  remedies,  and  was  one 
of  those  tonics  to  clear  the  head  made  heavy  with  wine. 
Kings  delighted  in  it  as  a  charm  against  poisons,  and  it  is 
in  itself  so  pretty  an  herb  when  the  dew  is  upon  it  that  no 
one  passes  without  pinching  the  leaves  in  recognition  of 
its  wondrous  merits.  When  in  blossom  it  adorns  the 
spring  with  frail  flowers  so  exquisite  that  they  remind  us 
of  frilled  lace  of  ancient  pattern. 
141 


H2       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

Whether  it  be  the  bloom  of  the  cherry  time  or  when  the 
lavender  shows  its  purple,  we  accept  it  as  an  excuse  to  in- 
vite the  neighbors  to  friendly  communion.  If  one  is  very 
crafty  in  social  matters  she  will  plant  a  little  herb  garden 
for  this  purpose,  and  when  entertainment  becomes  dull, 
cause  a  sensation  by  asking  friends  to  the  number  of  the 
muses  to  coffee  and  an  herb  chaplet.  Nothing  is  finer  for 
the  linen  chest  than  Drayton's  chaplet  of  herbs,  lending  a 
cleanly  odor  to  napery. 

Among  the  most  ardent  flower  lovers  will  be  sure  to  be 
those  who  will  go  on  voyages  of  discovery  among  the 
plants,  not  recognizing  the  savory,  the  marjoram,  or 
thyme  from  its  dried  package  stamped  by  the  grocer.  The 
true  herbalist  will  have  his  day,  the  one  day  of  the  year, 
and  the  herb  gardener  a  fete  not  matched  in  the  social 
annals. 

The  poet's  chaplet  follows  the  fantastic  rhyme — 

"A  chaplet  then  of  herbes  I  '11  make, 

Than  which,  though  yours  be  braver, 
Yet  this  of  mine,  I  '11  undertake, 

Shall  not  be  short  in  savour. 
With  Basil  then  I  will  begin, 

Whose  scent  is  wondrous  pleasing, 
The  Eglantine  I  '11  next  put  in 

The  sense  with  sweetness  seizing. 
Then  in  the  Lavender  I  '11  lay, 

Muscado  put  among  it, 


HERBS   O'    GRACE  143 

With  here  and  there  a  leaf  of  Bay 

Which  still  shall  run  along  it. 
Germander,  Marjoram  and  Thyme, 

Which  used  are  for  strewing, 
With  Hyssop  as  an  herb  most  prime 

Here  is  my  wreath  bestowing. 
Then  Balm  and  Mint  to  help  make  up 

My  chaplet,  and  for  trial 
Costmary  that  so  likes  the  cup ; 

Next  to  it  Pennyroyal. 
Then  Burnet  shall  bear  up  with  this, 

Whose  leaf  I  greatly  fancy, 
Sweet  Camomile  doth  not  amiss 

With  Savory  and  some  Tansy. 
Then  here  and  there  I  '11  put  a  sprig 

Of  Rosemary  into  it, 
Thus,  not  too  little  nor  too  big, 

It 's  done,  if  I  can  do  it." 

The  August  sun  crisping  the  foliage  and  ripening  the 
seeds  before  we  can  snip  the  pods  from  the  annuals  has 
brought  the  herb  harvest  to  its  prime.  This  is  one  of  the 
events  of  summer  in  the  garden,  and  all  else  is  put  aside 
to  make  the  best  of  it.  It  is  not  safe  to  wait  until  to- 
morrow, when  the  heat  has  dried  the  pungent  leaves  and 
the  sap  lost  some  of  its  fire,  but,  on  the  very  day  that  the 
plants  have  reached  maturity  and  the  full  glory  of  their 
growing,  approach  them  with  a  devout  heart,  bearing 


144       THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

basket  and  shears,  and  collect  your  herbs  for  the  uses  of 
winter. 

What  a  pity  it  would  be  if  the  honorable  occupation  of 
herb  gathering  should  fade  from  the  privileges  of  women, 
for  it  has  pleasures  of  a  dainty  order,  and  the  wonder  is 
that  there  are  not  more  of  the  gentler  sex  who  embrace 
its  work.  It  needs  light  fingers,  knowledge,  and  wit, 
touches  beauty  and  poetry,  and  lures  into  the  meadows 
and  forests.  It  is  generous  in  its  rewards,  granting  sweet 
graces  of  thought  like  those  bequeathed  to  all  who  follow 
the  beloved  of  the  poets. 

Ever  since  one  to  the  manor  born  in  herb  gathering 
trailed  her  frilled  petticoats  among  the  dewy  mints  to 
pinch  a  leaf  of  sweet  basil  crouched  at  the  foot  of 
the  rue,  the  scanty  corner  set  apart  for  herbs  has  not 
been  the  prosaic  place  the  cook  avers  it  to  be.  Sage  and 
old-man  seemed  to  bristle  under  her  fingers,  and  to  dis- 
pense perfumes  after  their  kind  as  she  recited  legends 
from  herb  lore  of  "an  herb  for  every  pain."  Banished 
forever  is  our  faith  in  apothecaries  who  build  their  honor 
on  coal-tar  compounds,  as  these  are  as  naught  beside  heal- 
ing plants  distilled  and  brewed  to  cure  an  ache  or  to 
"minister  to  a  mind  diseased." 

All  true  herb  gatherers  are  children  of  inheritance. 
The  few  that  kind  fortune  has  sent  across  my  path  in  a 
lifetime  have  passed  their  wisdom  by  word  of  mouth  as 
they  learned  it  from  some  grandsire  or  ancient  relative. 


HERBS   O'    GRACE  145 

Bit  by  bit  it  fell  upon  the  ears  while  standing  tiptoe 
before  a  white-doored  cupboard.  The  shelves  were  filled 
with  precious  jars  and  vials,  each  bearing  its  own  inscrip- 
tion in  slant  Italian  lettering.  The  wisdom  gained  when 
hunting  among  the  garret  rafters  lingers  a  lifetime.  There 
bunches  of  drying  odorous  leaves  hung  among  the  wasps' 
nests;  or,  best  of  all,  is  the  lore  won  through  many  long 
days  tramping  the  woods  for  roots  and  herbs,  haunting 
the  marshes  and  streams,  and  in  those  hours  when  climb- 
ing lonely  paths  to  rocky  heights  for  plants  that  shun 
human  association. 

To  the  true  believer  faith  is  firm  in  the  jars  of  golden 
liquid  standing  neatly  side  by  side  on  the  shelves.  The 
child  looks  upon  them  with  awe ;  but  as  one  passes  out  of 
the  old-homestead  atmosphere  and  grows  to  years  of  dis- 
cretion, he  may  cherish  a  doubt  if  the  lily  leaves  plucked 
from  the  garden  in  the  "up  of  the  moon"  when  the  dew 
is  jeweling  their  whiteness,  and  bottled  away  in  fine  old 
rye,  possess  the  power  accorded  them  of  the  medicinal 
nature  of  herbs. 

Is  not  this  one  of  the  primrose  ways  tempting  the 
gentry,  who  look  with  horror  on  the  wine  that  is  red,  to 
take  an  occasional  draught  "for  the  stomach's  sake'"? 
The  devotee  of  old-wives'  wisdom  and  the  learning  of 
herb  gatherers  would  cry  heresy  at  the  thought,  for  what 
other  rite  of  the  garden  is  like  to  that  of  gathering  lily 
leaves  in  the  radiance  of  a  waxing  moon,  and  storing 


146       THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

them  away  to  solace  pain?  It  is  the  very  next  thing  to 
owning  a  fairy  wand  and  to  stepping  into  the  fairy  frolics 
of  fairyland  itself. 

Therefore  know  all  men  on  the  word  of  a  sage  that 
white  day  lilies  do  not  bloom  in  vain,  that  their  beauty 
and  purity  are  created  for  those  in  distress,  and  next  them 
is  the  foxglove — digitalis — whose  juices  distilled  help  the 
weary  of  heart.  To  these  add,  for  completeness'  sake, 
the  decoctions  of  lavender,  asphodel,  and  elder-blossom 
tops,  cut  with  a  silver  knife  to  the  words  of  an  incanta- 
tion which  warded  off  evil  powers  and  preserved  the  heal- 
ing virtues  of  the  plant. 

The  ceremony  of  distillation,  brew,  or  extraction  is  a 
serious  process.  Then  comes  the  sealed  bottling  of  the 
purest  of  amber  liquors,  to  be  served  in  time  in  the  tiniest 
of  crystal  glasses — perchance  so  treasured  that  a  portion 
is  doled  out  in  a  deep-bowled  silver  spoon  to  the  anxious 
pensioner  for  aid.  Just  one  visit  of  the  ancient  relative 
herb  gatherer  is  enough  to  change  the  entire  aspect  of  the 
garden  in  the  mind's  eye,  and  transform  it  from  a  pleas- 
ure spot  to  an  inclosure  of  mysteries.  No  one  records 
its  secrets,  which  are  told  in  whispers. 

Summer  is  hastening  to  the  season  of  fruits.  Let  none 
delay  to  look  upon  her  meadows  and  through  the  groves, 
for  autumn  is  already  on  the  threshold,  lighting  its 
torches  of  goldenrod,  fanning  the  blaze  of  its  cardinal 
flowers,  and  unveiling  the  stars  of  the  aster  tribes. 


HERBS   O'    GRACE  147 

Far  and  wide,  to  north,  west,  and  south,  are  spread  the 
farms  with  the  harvest  fields  carpeted  with  cloth  of  gold 
and  shocks  of  ripened  grain  heaped  in  marshaled  ranks, 
as  if  the  wealth  of  a  treasure  house  of  the  Incas  had  been 
scattered,  awaiting  the  luggage  carriers  of  a  marauding 
army. 

The  clover  meadows  are  showing  another  harvest  of 
bloom,  and  the  hum  of  bees  is  drowned  by  the  rustle  of 
the  bladed  corn  waving  its  tasseled  banners  in  great  regi- 
ments whose  numbers  defy  the  count  of  spying  eyes. 

The  old  days  of  the  rail  fence,  which  wormed  its  path 
along  the  highway,  are  gone  with  the  era  of  stone  walls 
that  defied  the  storms  of  winter.  Barriers  of  wire  cob- 
webs hold  clover  and  corn  and  the  empires  of  grain  within 
limits,  and,  like  the  magic  sign  written  on  the  earth  and 
in  the  air  by  fairy  guards,  order  the  herds  of  sleek  cattle, 
the  sheep  and  lambs  and  frolicsome  colts,  to  keep  within 
proper  domains. 

But  one  strip  of  earth  along  the  road  is  debatable 
ground  and  free  to  all  the  vagrants  riding  on  the  air  or 
keeping  close  to  the  soil.  These  are  the  borders  of  the 
roadside,  where  live  the  weeds  and  the  wild  flowers, 
where  the  thorn  trees  and  willows  claim  space,  and  wild 
rabbits  and  quail  are  sure  of  a  sheltering  tangle. 

In  August  the  mints  gather  in  mobs  and  make  conven- 
tions on  the  miniature  hills  of  the  wayside  of  the  high- 
lands. Mints  are  not  solitary,  preferring  to  assemble  in 


148       THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

sociable  families.  The  wild  bergamot  or  horsemint  deco- 
rates waste  lands  and  the  roadsides  in  masses  of  a  lovely 
purple,  each  stem  rising  from  the  branched  plant  bearing 
its  own  beautifully  arranged  flower — a  cluster  of  deli- 
cately fashioned  bloom  that  has  a  spicy  fragrance  which 
lasts  long  after  the  flowers  are  gone  and  the  foliage  is  sere 
and  brown. 

The  catnip  has  taken  to  parasitic  habits  along  with 
domestic  animals,  and  is  to  be  found  in  dooryards  as  well 
as  afield.  Another  mint  grows  in  sturdy  branching  plants 
with  pointed  leaves  in  whorls.  Near  the  end  of  every  up- 
ward standing  branch  the  leaves  masquerade  as  bloom  in 
streaks  of  white  and  cream  and  deep  rose,  and  beneath 
them  are  hidden  marvelously  constructed  little  flowers. 

Now  and  then  a  little  colony  of  toadflax,  the  butter 
and  eggs  of  old  times,  and  the  wee  golden-haired  snap- 
dragons left  from  the  July  fields  tramp  near  the  dusty 
highway.  The  brilliant  butterfly  weed  robed  in  the 
orange  of  sunset  spreads  its  gorgeous  clusters  where  the 
sands  are  deep,  and  perchance,  if  the  earth  has  beaten 
hard  under  many  hoofs  and  forgotten,  it  has  been  speed- 
ily clothed  in  the  lacy  foliage  and  starry  daisies  of  the 
rock  camomile. 

Boneset  and  yarrow  are  likewise  common  among  wild 
flowers,  rarely  receiving  the  appreciation  they  deserve  be- 
cause of  their  omnipresence  in  the  pastures  as  familiar  as 
the  camomile  in  the  stable  yards  of  the  farms.  Boneset 


HERBS    O'    GRACE  149 

clusters  are  grayish  white  at  a  distance,  showing  many 
fairy  flowers  on  close  acquaintance.  Frequently  the  gray 
blossoms  are  tinged  with  a  rosy  hue  like  the  blush  of 
dawn. 

At  the  foot  of  its  taller  companions  the  pearly  ever- 
lasting establishes  little  communities  of  its  own  which  are 
not  to  be  driven  out  by  ordinary  means.  Overshadowing 
it,  black-eyed  Susan  twists  its  yellow-frilled  ruff  on  its 
long  neck,  looking  across  to  the  spikes  of  blue  vervain, 
bluer  than  a  rain-washed  sky  of  May.  Bouncing  Bet  in 
her  primal  days  must  have  hung  over  the  gate  by  the 
light  of  the  moon,  for  along  country  ways,  if  she  is  no- 
where else  to  be  found,  you  will  surely  spy  her  ruffled  cap 
under  the  shadows  of  a  fence  post  or  assembled  just  with- 
out a  gate. 

Late  August  shows  few  lingerers  from  the  wild  carrot, 
the  queen's  lace  handkerchief  from  field-flower  comedy. 
Its  prettiness  has  given  place  to  the  milkweeds,  many  of 
which  seem  frail  enough  to  vanish  with  the  evening 
breeze. 

At  the  very  margin  of  the  wayside,  where  the  wheels 
cut  furrows  in  the  sod,  the  mullein  sets  out  its  rosettes  of 
silver-gray  velvet  leaves,  and  from  the  midst  of  such  royal 
furnishing  rises  the  tall  stem  adorned  with  velvet  ears  and 
lightened  by  pale  yellow  blossoms. 

Another  distinguished  plant  just  now  is  the  evening 
primrose,  modest  in  its  sunny  color;  and,  should  the  high- 


150       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

way  we  have  been  following  descend  the  hill  to  a  marshy 
bottom,  the  joe-pyeweed,  iron  weed,  milkweed,  and  lowly 
grass  of  Parnassus  are  to  be  found  in  the  moist  places. 
Sheltered  by  a  hedge  or  thicket,  the  cardinal  flower  hides 
its  glowing  color  of  warmest  red.  It  may  be  that  one  of 
the  late  lilies,  the  red  lily  of  the  meadow  or  the  saucy 
Turk's-cap,  rises  from  its  sword-shaped  lances  of  green 
and,  did  one  care  to  penetrate  the  marsh,  there  are  the 
modest  water-liking  mallows,  the  bed  straw,  jewel  weed, 
and  other  plants  that  seek  the  cool  black  earth. 

Crowded  in  the  fence  corners,  wild  blackberry  brambles 
set  their  thorns  against  intruders,  and  here  are  the  climb- 
ing vines,  a  mass  of  wild  vetches,  and  an  army  of  blue 
harebells  that  dare  not  take  to  the  open  road. 

Up  hill  and  down  winds  the  highway,  bordered  on 
either  side  with  August  wild  flowers  shut  off  from  the 
fields.  These  are  the  heralds  of  autumn,  snatching  the 
hues  from  the  sky  and  sunset  west.  And  truly  it  seems 
that  "earth  's  crammed  with  heaven,  and  every  common 
bush  afire  with  God,  a  conflagration  of  color." 


WHILE  AUTUMN  LINGERS 

NOW  the  sunflowers  great  and  small  have  assembled 
for  their  annual  home-coming  at  the  gates  of  Sep- 
tember. As  the  passing  of  summer  was  marked  on  the 
almanac  of  yesterday,  it  seemed  as  if  the  morning  would 
discover  a  flitting  of  flowers  over  night,  and  that  the  gar- 
den would  look  deserted  and  bare,  but  again  the  clans  of 
the  helianthus  have  trooped  to  the  rescue.  From  an 
upper  window  where  one  can  look  afar  you  may  see  them 
coming  on  the  margins  of  dusty  highways,  in  grassy  lanes, 
across  the  fields,  nodding  their  pretty  heads  and  keeping 
tryst  with  autumn.  Their  sunshine  gladdens  the  for- 
gotten wastes,  it  lights  the  tapers  of  the  goldenrod,  and 
gives  an  alluring  sheen  to  the  purple  distance. 

If,  like  Puck,  we  could  girdle  the  earth  in  the  twink- 
ling of  an  eye,  it  should  be  done  this  day  by  passing  the 
greetings  from  one  sunflower  to  another  from  the  reef  of 
Norman's  Woe,  following  the  New  England  highways, 
the  National  Pike,  and  the  Santa  Fe  Trail  westward 
through  the  mountain  passes,  to  the  last  yellow  bouquet 
on  the  edge  of  the  desert.  The  clew  should  be  caught 
again  in  the  Sierras,  until  the  trail  led  to  blossoms 


152       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

in  Golden  Gate  Park,  reflecting  the  setting  sun  slipping 
low  in  the  blue  waters  of  the  rolling  Pacific. 

What  other  flower  can  boast  an  ancestry  traced  to  the 
courts  of  Helios,  what  other  has  as  charming  a  legend  for 
its  heritage  as  that  of  Clytie,  whose  adoring  face  is  ever 
turned  toward  her  god  in  the  sun  chariot? 

Whenever  we  walk  abroad  in  the  fresh  morning  air,  or 
rest  in  the  cool  of  the  evening,  the  tall  sunflowers  are 
looking  down  at  us  from  the  other  side  of  the  fence. 
Fancy  paints  a  curious  face  behind  the  powdered  gold 
mask  set  in  a  fringe  of  radiant  yellow  which  seems  to  be 
hammered  out  of  pure  gold.  And  if  one  steals  around 
the  back  way  to  examine  the  sturdy  plants  garmented  in 
abundant  foliage,  the  uncanny  superstition  grows,  and 
they  appear  to  be  some  gallant  grenadiers  of  flowerdom 
appointed  to  report  for  duty. 

Another  of  the  many  queer  traits  of  human  nature  is 
that  which  leads  us  to  overlook  the  good  common  things 
and  to  hunt  for  the  rare  and  unusual.  Many  an  hour 
have  we  nursed  a  garden  plant  that  refused  to  be  recon- 
ciled to  our  earth  and  care,  while,  if  we  had  been  content 
to  give  our  energy  to  native  plants  that  would  grow,  we 
should  have  had  an  enviable  spectacle  of  bloom  from 
spring  to  autumn. 

And  with  this  is  the  reflection  that  many  a  time  have 
we  spent  our  strength  in  pursuit  of  false  gods,  of  idle 
friendships,  of  superficial  amusements,  when  the  right 


APPROACH  TO  A  WATER  GARDEN,  LAKE  COMO,   ITALY 


WHILE   AUTUMN   LINGERS     153 

and  true  of  the  everyday  plan  was  at  our  doors.  Autumn 
is  a  season  for  thinking  over,  and  the  good  company  of 
the  sunflowers  has  been  the  reason  for  moralizing. 

The  neighbor  who  planted  a  screen  of  sunflowers  along 
his  chicken  yard  is  rejoicing  now.  The  hens  themselves 
cluck  of  seeds  to  come,  and  the  cock  has  mounted  the 
fence  post  to  herald  the  news  abroad.  Any  one  who 
sowed  a  seed  in  the  spring  has  a  smile  of  satisfaction  at 
the  sunflower  prodigality.  The  lesser  members  of  the 
tribes  helianthus,  the  coreopsis,  goldenglow,  calliopsis, 
calendulas,  and  the  rudbeckias  and  marigolds,  take  a 
second  start  in  life  if  the  shears  have  been  used  on  their 
faded  bloom  and  superfluous  growths  snipped  away. 

Yellow  is  the  color  of  sunshine  and  happiness,  and  at 
the  beginning  of  the  fall  of  the  year,  when  we  are  think- 
ing of  winter,  the  yellows  shed  glory  everywhere.  Where 
masses  appear  in  the  border,  the  purple  asters  seem  more 
royal,  the  blood  red  of  the  lobelia  cardinalis  takes  a 
warmer  hue,  and  the  whites  of  nicotinas,  cosmos,  and 
little  asters  are  snowy  in  contrast. 

The  sunflowers  and  their  allies  play  leading  parts  in 
the  pageant  of  September.  While  there  is  a  similarity  in 
the  character  of  ray  flowers,  there  are  differences  in  wood- 
land grace,  a  lavishness  of  bloom  as  if  every  plant  was 
trying  to  outdo  its  neighbor  in  flowering. 

There  are  signs  of  a  second  childhood  in  the  vigorous 
ambition  of  the  sweet  alyssum  to  make  white  ribbons,  and 


154       THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

the  blue  lobelia  never  shone  so  blue  in  June  as  it  does 
now,  when  it  reaches  an  intensity  in  its  color  as  strong  as 
the  temper  of  the  red  that  flames  in  the  zinnias  and  of  the 
ever-faithful  salvia.  The  touch  of  adversity  in  the  frost 
in  the  air  puts  them  on  their  mettle,  and  they  will  make 
the  most  of  the  days  before  them. 

The  mounds  of  foliage  plants  should  have  reached 
their  prime,  the  calladiums  attained  their  maximum 
size,  the  castor  beans  grown  to  trees,  the  cannas  put  forth 
their  most  luxuriant  growth,  and  the  seed  grasses,  waving 
gracefully  between,  be  loaded  with  seeds.  It  is  a  proving 
of  the  early  planning,  and  things  come  to  the  test,  just 
as  the  mountain  ash  hangs  out  its  bunches  of  orange 
berries,  the  rugosa  roses  fatten  their  brilliant  fruits,  and 
Japanese  quinces  hang  heavy  in  the  hedges. 

The  hydrangea  paniculata  grandiflora — a  name  as 
splendid  as  the  shrub  itself — is  conspicuous  in  suburban 
parks.  Out  comes  the  garden  notebook,  and,  if  none 
graces  our  premises,  down  goes  the  resolve  to  have  it. 
The  rose  of  Sharon  of  the  Althsea  kindred  has  climbed 
to  successes  unheard  of,  a  flower  for  every  twig,  and 
wreaths  of  blossoms  and  clean  foliage — a  flower  miracle 
on  the  lawn  as  striking  in  its  way  as  the  hydrangea. 
It  hints  of  mallow  and  hollyhock  and  of  the  cottage  amid 
meadows. 

It  is  a  mistake  to  imagine  that  because  the  sun  is  turn- 
ing southward  all  is  at  an  end,  and  that  the  woods  and 


WHILE   AUTUMN   LINGERS     155 

marshes  suggest  melancholy  days  to  come.  The  flower 
hunter  has  treasures  of  color  in  the  groves  and  open 
country  ready  for  the  plucking. 

All  seem  to  come  at  once  when  the  sunflowers  make 
their  home-coming.  It  is  a  celebration  of  beauty  in  the 
garden  among  the  gentle  plants,  and  a  field  day  where 
the  upland  asters  and  tramp  sunflowers  seem  to  chat  of 
helianthus  cucumerifolius,  content  to  live  in  gardens 
while  its  perennial  relatives  seek  the  highways. 

Autumn  lingers  far  away  when  the  summer  hours  are 
stealing  along  and  "a  light  of  laughing  flowers  across  the 
grass  is  spread."  Then  there  comes  a  brilliant  day  vibrant 
with  luxurious  warmth  and  languor.  At  sunset  long  level 
bars  of  purple  stretch  across  the  crimson  west,  mountains 
of  vapor  are  heaped  on  the  northern  horizon,  and  flashes 
of  lightning  play  upon  the  snowy  summits,  while  to  the 
south  the  ragged  fragments  of  storm  clouds  scud  away 
from  an  aftermath  of  a  distant  hurricane,  and,  from  the 
courts  where  the  sun  sets  burning  red,  float  long  pennants 
of  violet  mist  streaming  across  the  sapphire  skies  to  the 
infinite  reaches  of  the  zenith. 

Morn  dawns  after  a  night  when  the  winds  blow  east 
and  then  blow  west,  and  the  earliest  breeze  brings  an 
arctic  breath;  the  fragrance  of  northern  pine  forests 
comes  in  at  the  window,  and  we  awake  to  the  presence  of 
autumn.  The  quality  of  sunshine  has  changed  to  a  mel- 
lower light,  and  the  fervid  heat  has  been  tempered  and 


156       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

veiled  at  midday,  while  through  the  long  afternoon 
broods  the  calm  of  contentment. 

If  we  were  to  believe  the  flowers — the  cosmos,  nico- 
tinas,  tritomas,  phlox,  cardinal  flowers,  turtleheads,  and 
lilies  and  nasturtiums  keeping  a  bold  front  in  the  pres- 
ence of  the  dahlias  and  gladioli — we  would  turn  the 
pages  of  the  log  book  and  begin  another  month  of  blos- 
soms. But  the  September  calendar  announces  seedtime, 
and  among  my  dreams  there  are  none  so  ardent  as  those 
that  picture  the  future  better  than  the  past. 

Next  year  the  progeny  of  the  golden-eyed  coreopsis 
shall  have  many  square  yards  to  itself;  next  year  the  big 
snapdragons  will  become  greater  giants  by  sowing  the 
seed  in  a  sunnier  place;  next  year  the  poppies  shall  stir 
envy  in  the  hearts  of  the  town.  Then  we  haste  to  gather 
the  seeds. 

One  of  the  privileges  of  pride  in  gardening  is  showing 
off  its  treasures  to  friends.  It  is  a  pure  delight,  for  you 
are  parading  the  glories  of  nature.  And  what  think  you 
when,  boldly  before  your  watching  eyes,  some  thoughtless 
guest  breaks  off  the  seed  that  you  have  been  nursing  for 
days'?  What  would  you  do  when  they  take  "slips"  from 
your  symmetrical  begonias  and  geraniums'?  What  say 
you  when  they  wait  till  your  back  is  turned  and  help 
themselves  to  a  root  of  your  choice  dahlias,  or  smuggle  a 
hoped-for  Mefistofile  or  Baron  Hulot  gladiolus  in  their 
pockets? 


WHILE   AUTUMN   LINGERS     157 

These  grievances,  as  old  as  Adam  and  his  garden,  have 
vexed  every  flower  gatherer  since  that  indefinite  period 
B.C.;  and  who  will  declare  that  chance  visitors  from  the 
Land  of  Nod  did  not  help  themselves  to  cuttings  from 
the  Tree  of  Life?  History  is  silent  concerning  a  vast 
quantity  of  important  happenings  of  a  time  in  which  we 
are  safe  in  supposing  that  human  nature  was  already 
gifted  with  its  tangents. 

With  a  weakness  for  festivals  and  saints'  days,  I  have 
often  wondered  why  the  almanac  forgot  seed  gathering 
in  the  flower  garden.  In  fact,  others  have  spoken  of  it 
with  a  thought  of  introducing  an  event  along  with  "Bird 
Day"  and  "Midsummer  Eve"  and  the  "Harvest  Home." 
Then  we  reflected  that  the  spirit  of  vexation  walks 
abroad  in  the  flower  garden,  and  the  elves  of  the  wind 
make  sport  with  good  intentions. 

There  is  this  difference  to  be  considered  between  well- 
bred  cereals  and  flowers — the  first  are  fairly  prompt  in 
their  ripening  and  the  harvester  knows  when  to  step  in 
and  gather  his  grain,  and  the  second  uses  such  a  variety 
of  methods  in  attending  to  personal  affairs  that  the  gar- 
dener must  be  wise  and  forehanded  if  he  can  forestall 
them. 

All  through  life  we  are  negligent  in  storing  virtues  to 
make  joy  for  future  seasons;  so  all  summer  long  we 
overlook  seed  gathering.  On  a  day  in  August  it  was 
decided  to  let  the  flowers  go  to  seed.  The  cook  wanted 


158       THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

nasturtium  pods  for  her  pickles,  and  the  gardener  had 
marked  the  best  colors  and  the  most  perfect  flowers  in 
all  the  borders  either  with  a  tag  or  gay  yarn  whose  hue 
has  a  meaning  for  him,  or  with  a  bit  of  wire  and  bam- 
boo on  which  is  written  what  he  does  not  remember. 

In  the  cool  of  his  sanctum  on  a  hot  afternoon  he  marks 
a  hundred  little  envelopes  and  fits  them  in  a  box,  for  it  is 
right  to  do  everything  in  order,  and  the  card-catalogue 
system  is  the  best  for  seeds  as  well  as  for  cooking  recipes 
and  many  another  thing. 

All  seems  to  be  going  well  on  the  eve  before  the  day 
of  seed  collecting,  to  which  a  favorite  neighbor  has  been 
invited;  for  surely  there  is  enough  for  many.  It  is  prob- 
able that  the  gamut  of  splendid  color  run  by  the  Mexican 
zinnias  has  not  missed  a  note  in  its  scale  in  ripening  seeds, 
and  the  pansies  were  never  in  better  shape,  the  poppies 
have  formed  shapely  pepper  boxes,  the  sweet  Williams 
and  pinks  have  filled  their  goblets,  and  the  balloon  vine 
and  Chinese  lantern  hang  their  fruits  from  the  wire 
netting. 

It  is  true  we  missed  the  columbine  seeds  in  the  wind 
that  shook  them  from  their  cups  on  a  stormy  night  in 
June;  and,  before  we  forget  it,  a  search  should  be  made 
for  the  lady's  paintbrush  that  the  children  begged  for — 
and  could  its  fate  be  a  hint  of  what  came  after*?  On  a 
pincushion  top  tilted  a  single  seed,  which  sailed  away  on 
its  own  parachute  while  we  watched  it. 


WHILE   AUTUMN    LINGERS     159 

The  delay  was  fatal — putting  off  until  to-morrow 
what  should  have  been  done  yesterday.  The  lady's-slip- 
pers  popped  their  seeds  as  fast  as  they  ripened.  The 
innocent  purple  pansies  had  unclasped  the  fairy  hands  of 
their  jewel  cases  and  thrown  the  petals  far  and  wide,  and 
the  violet  was  doing  the  sly  trick  of  burying  its  pods  in 
the  earth,  as  if  to  imitate  the  heron's-bill,  which  has  run 
the  point  of  its  ripened  head  into  the  ground  and  planted 
its  seeds  after  its  own  fancy. 

It  was  a  mystery — and  is  to  this  day — how  the  poppies 
succeeded  in  emptying  their  box  pods  of  the  last  seed,  and 
no  science  will  ever  explain  the  wonders  of  wealth  that 
are  hidden  in  the  black  pearls  of  the  cockscomb  which 
gemmed  the  leaves  of  the  creeping  musk  under  the  plants. 
Even  the  petunias  had  knocked  the  caps  off  their  little 
cups  and  spilled  the  treasure,  and  the  rings  of  hollyhock 
seeds  skipped  here  and  there  from  the  plants  as  soon  as 
you  touched  them. 

With  a  thankful  heart  we  recall  the  name  of  a  reliable 
seedsman  and  his  wonderfully  pictured  lists,  and  are  glad 
that  there  is  no  moralist  at  hand  to  talk  of  the  sins  of 
omission  and  commission  and  seed  gathering  for  another 
world. 


MY  LADY  DAHLIA  TAKES  THE  AIR 

ALL  the  neighborhood  is  topsy-turvy,  and  weeds 
growing  full  speed  in  the  borders,  because  it  is 
dahlia  time.  The  fanciers  have  assembled  on  street 
corners,  talked  long  and  late  under  the  front  windows, 
and  declared  their  red-letter  day  of  the  year  has  come, 
because  one  among  them  has  bred  a  new  dahlia  not  in  the 
calendar.  It  is  unique;  it  does  not  match  any  heard-of 
description. 

The  dahlia  passion  is  not  half  so  ridiculous  as  some 
others,  as  it  does  effect  an  annual  climax.  The  flower 
makes  its  appeal  to  the  masculine  sense — that  is,  more 
men  than  women  may  be  counted  among  the  dahlia  en- 
thusiasts— and  next  to  tulip  madness  is  the  speculation  in 
dahlia  bulbs  in  a  quiet  way  by  the  very  persons  you  would 
not  suspect. 

Friend  K.,  coolest  of  business  men,  has  haunted  a  cor- 
ner in  his  yard  since  he  planted  the  dusty  tubers  in  the 
spring.  It  leaked  out  through  one  of  the  children  that  a 
box  of  dahlia  roots  had  come  from  France,  but  not  a  word 
was  said  of  the  matter.  A  knot  of  pink  string  dis- 
tinguished one  green  stalk  from  the  clump  of  a  dozen,  and 
1 60 


MY'  LADY   DAHLIA  161 

that  was  the  stalk  that  brought  to  light  the  new  dahlia. 
As  dahlia  collectors  have  as  little  conscience  as  curio 
fanatics,  it  would  not  have  been  safe  to  make  the  pros- 
pects public  lest  thieves  come  at  night,  and  inquisitive 
eyes  peer  over  the  fence  by  day. 

Friend  K.  assures  the  commonplace  gardeners  who  are 
not  dahlia  experts  that  they  have  brought  him  good  for- 
tune. His  dahlias  afford  him  an  outlet  for  his  nervous 
energy.  They  are  something  to  think  about  not  argued 
over  in  the  daily  paper,  and  from  the  hour  of  putting  his 
roots  in  the  earth,  labeling  and  bracing  the  plants  to 
stakes,  he  has  a  source  of  interest  dependent  only  upon 
the  sunshine  and  rain,  as,  fortunately,  few  pests  come  the 
way  of  his  dahlias. 

Since  the  birth  of  his  passion  he  has  a  score  of  corres- 
pondents who,  like  himself,  are  absorbed  in  dahlia  cul- 
ture, who  keep  log  books  and  records  of  pedigrees,  who 
enter  them  at  county  fairs,  and  know  every  perfect  dahlia 
which  is  in  the  family  tree  of  the  aristocracy  written  down 
in  catalogues.  Whenever  there  is  a  flurry  in  the  busi- 
ness world  down  town,  Friend  K.  gets  out  his  dahlia  cata- 
logues if  it  is  winter,  or  goes  to  the  garden  if  it  is  summer. 

The  worried  lines  on  his  forehead  give  place  to  others 
of  keen  interest  and  hopefulness  as  he  makes  notes  in  the 
log  book  of  triumphs  in  color  and  hints  for  another  season, 
and  the  next  morning  he  questions  the  truthfulness  of 
stock  reports,  looks  at  the  market  with  optimism,  and  cuts 


162       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

two  of  his  choicest  blossoms  to  present  to  a  fellow  enthu- 
siast in  the  next  office.  As  he  gets  on  the  train  he  thanks 
his  lucky  stars  that  he  has  dahlias  to  comfort  him,  and 
feels  that  a  fairy  godmother  smiled  over  his  cradle  and 
frowned  on  the  unenlightened  neighbors. 

Just  as  we  have  found  it  hard  to  convince  others  of 
grounds  for  our  enthusiasm  in  flowers,  Friend  K.  has  dis- 
covered that  dahlias  "are  Greek"  to  other  men.  His  golf 
chum,  W.,  looks  at  him  curiously  as  he  comes  in  with  a 
lurking  smile  and  whistles  contentedly  to  himself.  When 
the  world  is  at  sixes  and  sevens  in  a  financial  way,  Friend 
K.  wears  a  monster  crimson  dahlia  on  his  coat  and  sits  on 
the  sunny  side  of  the  car  without  grumbling. 

Has  he  dropped  out  of  society,  that  he  chooses  a  dusty 
laborer  for  his  companion*?  And  what  can  he  find  to  say 
to  him,  though  he  has  a  crushed  dahlia  in  his  buttonhole 
which  perhaps  a  child  put  there  as  she  said  "good-by"? 
And  as  W.  listens,  his  puzzle  over  Friend  K.'s  sanity 
deepens,  and  the  phrases  are  meaningless:  "Seed  in 
March  in  boxes — thirty-seven  varieties — bewildering  col- 
ors— purest  strain  known — madder  red — sunflower  yel- 
low— perfect  to  a  petal — no  sports,"  and  so  on.  As  the 
voices  rise  above  the  rumble  of  wheels,  W.  observes  that 
others  join  the  group,  and  the  wordy  war  on  the  compara- 
tive values  of  seedlings  and  tuber-grown  sends  him  out 
of  hearing  of  such  jargon.  Of  course,  a  man  has  a  right 
to  a  fad. 


MY   LADY   DAHLIA  163 

The  dahlia  fancier  is  a  man  of  a  type.  It  may  be  that 
you  who  read  are  one ;  and  if  so,  look  down  into  your  own 
soul  and  discover  why  you  consume  so  much  interest  on 
so  unresponsive  a  flower.  The  dahlia  is  splendid  in  vel- 
vety texture,  gorgeous  colors,  and  construction,  but  its 
elegance  of  dress,  like  that  of  so  many  dames  we  know, 
has  taken  its  all  and  forgotten  its  spirit.  It  is  more  of  a 
wallflower  than  the  wallflower  itself,  standing  aloof,  giv- 
ing nothing  and  taking  much  without  a  breath  of  per- 
fume. This  is  whispered  sub  rosa;  it  is  heresy  in  the  ears 
of  dahlia  enthusiasts  walking  in  their  gardens  at  this  very 
hour,  yet  they  have  their  stings  of  disappointment,  too,  to 
pray  for  our  sympathy.  They  may  be  secretive  in  Spar- 
tan reserve,  but  it  hurts. 

Imagine  a  newly  elected  devotee  in  the  early  spring 
dreaming  of  the  beauty  of  all  that  he  has  seen  in  the 
autumn  and,  with  the  illustrated  catalogue,  hoping  for 
royal  successes  in  the  summer  before  him.  His  tubers  are 
set,  his  seeds  are  planted,  and  he  awaits  the  momentous 
hour  of  opening  buds.  What  are  his  emotions  when  he 
beholds  his  supreme  treasure  of  last  year,  that  may  be  of 
burnished  gold,  a  "sport"  of  this  season,  the  brilliant 
fluted  rosette  marred  by  an  unbecoming  patch  of  common 
red !  In  his  haste  he  may  pull  it  up  and  throw  it  on  the 
ash  heap,  and  then  turn  to  the  garden  log  book  to 
check  up  the  descendants  of  1907  in  the  column  of  1908. 
Then  sign  follows  sign  as  more  "freaks"  enter  the  lists, 


164       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

and  the  notes  at  the  foot  of  the  page  are  more  elaborate 
than  those  in  the  orderly  margin. 

Yet  if  he  can  register  but  two  or  three  loyal  high-bred 
varieties,  and  half  a  dozen  gorgeous  newcomers,  some 
accounted  for  by  his  purchases  and  trades  and  others  that 
he  hopes  are  the  result  of  his  own  breeding,  he  accepts 
the  conviction  that  dahlia  growing,  like  life,  has  its  ups 
and  downs. 

If  the  next  mail  brings  a  letter  and  a  catalogue  from 
another  dahlia  fanatic  the  hurt  of  disappointment  is 
gone,  and  the  grower  has  a  succession  of  visions  of 
singles,  doubles,  ten-inch  monsters,  and  dwarf  chickadees, 
— decorative,  pompon,  and  cactus-bred  and  chrysan- 
themum-mannered,— and,  as  the  fire  of  passion  flares  up 
again,  he  turns  to  his  gentle  gardener  partner  and  says: 
"Next  year." 

What  is  there  to  compare  with  a  fancy  like  this  in 
which  men  of  affairs  have  found  refreshment  in  working 
with  nature?  The  ancient  magic  has  not  fled  the  earth 
so  long  as  common  man  can  bury  a  dahlia  tuber  in  early 
spring  and  bid  it  be  gay  in  autumn,  confident  that  it  will 
keep  the  tryst  with  him — which  it  does. 

Flower  gatherers  lingering  in  the  twilight  know  the 
hour  by  the  kindling  of  the  gypsy  fires.  The  red  flames 
make  circles  of  light  in  the  gloom,  and  wreaths  of  smoke 
curl  upward  as  if  from  the  burning  of  some  sacrifice.  All 
through  the  long  summer  days  the  gypsy  caravans 


MY   LADY   DAHLIA  165 

followed  the  country  byroads,  camping  at  night  in  shaded 
nooks  near  ever-flowing  springs  of  fresh  water,  and  asking 
largess  of  no  man.  Summer  gave  generously  of  her  high- 
way fruits,  and  the  night  repeated  no  gossip  of  visited 
cornfields,  haunted  gardens,  or  the  vanishing  of  stray 
chickens. 

But  the  first  hint  of  frost  in  the  air  brings  the  gypsy 
nearer  his  settled  kindred,  and  he  lights  his  autumnal 
camp  fires  on  the  edges  of  villages  and  the  outskirts  of 
cities.  You  may  see  the  flame  of  the  caravan's  torches 
to-night  after  sunset  on  the  prairies  which  they  have 
known  for  years  to  the  southwest  and  the  northwest, 
though  the  growing  city  has  given  warning  that  they  must 
move  farther  on. 

Many  a  housewife  double  locks  the  door  at  the  vision 
of  a  dark-browed  Romany  peering  above  her  garden 
fence,  or  hastily  drops  her  curtain  when  the  gypsy  for- 
tune-telling princess  and  her  alluring  band  approach  the 
back  door.  She  knows  that  there  will  be  mischief  abroad 
in  the  neighborhood,  that  prophecies  will  sow  discontent 
among  the  maids. 

She  knows  that  the  boys  will  be  drawn  by  the  romance 
of  the  camp  fires,  and  that  men  will  dicker  in  the  shad- 
ows behind  the  wagons.  All  the  glamour  veiling  a  race 
that  has  wandered  since  the  making  of  the  world,  count- 
ing themselves  in  league  with  the  powers  of  darkness, 
does  not  overcome  that  insistent  suspicion  that  bids  us 


166       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

beware  of  the  gypsy,  who  toils  not,  neither  does  he  spin. 
Yet  for  all  that  we  may  send  greeting  to  the  gypsy,  out- 
side the  pale  of  our  lives  though  he  be.  For  he  loves  the 
open  world,  the  night,  and  the  sunrise,  and  his  is  an  in- 
domitable spirit  that  refuses  to  bend  to  conventions  and 
the  money  craze  of  the  time.  His  is  an  unquenchable 
thirst  for  freedom. 

But  the  gypsy  of  the  black  eye  and  gay-striped  skirt 
and  tinsel-trimmed  jacket  is  not  the  only  mischief-making 
tramp  in  the  fields  in  September.  The  human  gypsy  is  a 
gay,  light-footed  soul,  but  not  so  fleet  as  the  winged 
gypsies,  the  moths  and  butterflies  that  are  putting  in  their 
tricks  among  the  late  vegetables  in  the  gardens  and  the 
autumn  flowers. 

Swarms  of  little  white  butterflies  flutter  their  wings 
over  the  cabbage  patch,  the  parsley  beds,  and  the  nastur- 
tium borders.  Armies  of  warm-hued,  brown-winged 
creatures  have  invaded  the  city  streets,  and  the  butterfly 
lover  is  bewildered  at  the  numbers  and  varieties  to  be 
seen  above  the  marshes  and  where  goldenrod  and  asters 
are  in  bloom.  The  mischief-making  gypsy  butterflies 
are  living  swiftly  in  the  brief  period  of  life  permitted 
them.  It  is  birth  from  a  hidden  chrysalis,  courtship,  mar- 
riage, and  the  laying  of  eggs  among  plants  where  the 
hatched  grubs  may  find  material  to  fatten  upon  and  the 
fine  threads  with  which  to  spin  cocoons  from  which  to 
begin  a  new  cycle  of  existence. 


MY    LADY    DAHLIA  167 

Butterfly  life  is  fascinating,  and  to  our  unseeing  eyes 
free  from  care,  yet  who  can  imagine  a  more  dutiful  or  a 
busier  one  bent  on  making  ends  meet*?  When  all  is  said, 
it  is  near  that  of  the  Romany  who  builds  his  camp  fires 
where  others  have  cut  wood,  and  who  sets  his  youngling 
at  the  barn  gate  at  milking  time. 

The  butterfly  gypsy  plays  havoc  in  the  parsley  bed  and 
cuts  many  a  cabbage  and  tobacco  leaf.  It  is  a  mischief- 
maker  of  the  first  order.  Its  beauty  of  painted  wing  and 
jeweled  head  does  not  blind  us  to  its  purposes  in  life. 
Other  gypsies  frequent  the  waste  places,  steal  through 
the  broken  paling  in  the  garden  fence,  and  excite  the 
wrath  of  the  man  who  sows  and  reaps.  These  are  the 
weeds  now  in  the  high  tide  of  their  mischievous  careers. 
As  in  the  case  of  Romany,  there  is  a  sense  of  caste  among 
them,  high-born  and  lofty  mannered  and  the  lowly 
tramps.  The  goldenrod,  wild  sunflowers,  mints,  and 
asters  are  camp  followers,  and  much  is  forgiven  because 
of  their  beauty. 

The  true  gypsies  are  the  ragweed,  Indian  hemp,  pig- 
weed, hogweed,  plantain,  pusley,  smartweed,  and  thistles 
— and  not  to  be  forgotten  and  mighty  in  their  schemes, 
the  whole  bur  family.  They  seem  bent  on  annoying 
humankind;  and,  unless  one  looks  closely,  they  do  not 
have  signs  of  beauty  to  invite  the  passing  interest.  Not 
so  daintily  winged  as  the  butterfly  nor  gifted  with  the 
turn  of  temper  of  a  Romany  of  the  camp  fire,  the  gypsy 


i68       THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

weed  plods  along  in  the  dust,  intent  on  winning  more 
acreage  and  looking  out  for  his  chance  to  perpetuate  his 
kind. 

The  ragweed  has  a  prettily  cleft  leaf  which  seems  as  if 
nature  put  herself  out  to  invent  a  particularly  good  pat- 
tern. Above  quite  a  graceful  plant  rises  the  central  stalk, 
with  tiers  of  what  seem  to  be  greenish  buds,  but  the  eye  is 
misled;  every  round  green  cap  covers  a  dainty  flower 
which  actually  showers  golden  pollen  at  your  touch.  The 
ragweed  is  lavish  in  its  supply,  and  takes  no  chances  with 
economy;  it  is  determined  to  survive  and  send  generations 
down  the  line.  It  scatters  its  pollen  on  the  wind  in  boun- 
tiful supplies,  waving  its  wee  bells  in  triumph  as  the 
sneezing  human  nature  passes  by  in  frank  recognition 
that  the  evil  hour  of  "hay  fever"  is  at  hand. 

The  smartweed  is  a  near  relative  of  princes'-feather, 
with  a  pretty  pink  plume,  and  the  smartweed  bloom  is 
not  to  be  despised  in  a  wild-flower  bouquet.  Camomile 
is  modest  and  daisy  eyed,  mallow  has  a  wee  flower  and 
little  cheeses  for  the  play  teas  of  children,  but  these  are 
the  gay  young  Romany  folk  who  invite  to  the  presence  of 
their  coarser  elders. 

The  ragged  pigweed  is  a  gypsy  tramp  of  unredeeming 
qualities.  It  comes  uninvited,  and  steals  its  food  from 
the  soil  without  a  friendly  return.  It  is  in  league  with 
the  winds,  and  flies  on  the  gales,  begging  for  transporta- 
tion. Though  not  provided  with  the  hooks  by  which  the 


MY   LADY   DAHLIA  169 

burs  catch  fast  to  my  lady's  skirts  and  follow  the  trail  of 
cattle  and  sheep,  not  disdaining  to  take  passage  on  the 
tail  of  a  high-stepping  thoroughbred  if  that  will  serve  a 
purpose,  the  pigweed  makes  its  way  in  search  of  new 
worlds  to  conquer. 

By  far  more  degenerate  than  human  or  butterfly  gypsy, 
it  manages  to  add  its  generations  of  happy-go-lucky  career 
without  embellishing  the  records  of  beauty  or  romance  of 
the  summers  of  centuries  past  and  present. 

Yet  we  may  be  mistaken.  A  wiser  age  may  discover 
uses  for  weeds,  and  a  turn  of  the  wheel  of  fortune  pamper 
them  that  they  rise  in  the  scale  of  loveliness. 


IN  ELYSIAN  FIELDS 

BY  a  strange  oversight  the  garden  books  have  slighted 
the  art  of  making  gardens  for  children.  Of  course  a 
garden  is  a  fairyland  at  any  time,  a  wilderness  of  pure 
delight,  and  the  most  barren  can  be  decked  with  fancy 
until  it  blooms  like  the  Vale  of  Cashmere.  We  who  have 
always  loved  gardens  from  our  earliest  days,  and  remem- 
ber those  of  the  first  years  of  childhood,  know  how  great 
the  contrast  is  between  the  flowery  land  of  our  dreams  and 
the  fenced  inclosure  that  we  return  to  visit  after  a  score  of 
years  and  are  told  that  it  has  not  changed  at  all.  Where 
is  the  glamour  and  whither  has  flown  the  vision -fair1? 

Blessed  childhood,  blessed  with  rosy  hopes  and  faith 
that  all  before  and  about  us  is  what  we  wish  it  to  be! 
The  rosebush  with  the  single  rose  is  a  bower,  the  strug- 
gling bed  of  posies  the  source  of  every  perfume  and 
delight  in  flower  land.  They  are  ours  for  the  day  or  the 
summer,  and  what  can  compare  beside  them ! 

Next  to  being  born  with  a  dreaming  fancy  is  the  rare 

gift  of  an  imaginative  friend  to  take  the  child  by  the 

hand  and  to  make  fairy  rings  grow  in  the  grass  and  elves 

live  in  every  flowery  cup.    Such  a  friend  throws  wide  the 

170 


IN   ELYSIAN   FIELDS  171 

windows  of  the  soul  to  poetry  and  to  beauty  in  after  life. 
It  is  a  gift  of  inheritance  abiding  with  the  years  and  be- 
yond the  changes  of  fickle  fortune. 

Little  yellow-haired  Barbara  lives  in  a  fine  garden 
planned  by  a  garden  architect.  It  is  superb,  a  landscape 
picture  in  masses  of  foliage  of  varied  greens  in  dense 
shade,  broken  by  patches  of  filtered  lights  where  the  sun 
scatters  living  gold  on  a  carpet  of  emerald;  and  all  along 
the  borders  wave  ribbons  of  color  as  perfect  as  if  painted 
from  the  palette  of  a  master  artist — as  truly  they  were. 
Little  Barbara  walks  up  and  down  the  flowery  ways,  and 
perchance  stops  to  pluck  a  clover  bloom  in  the  grass,  or  a 
shepherd' s-purse  that  through  some  mysterious  dispensa- 
tion of  Providence  escaped  the  lawn  mower  and  the  eagle 
eye  of  the  garden  architect. 

And  while  now  and  then  she  stops  to  smell  a  fragrant 
bud  or  to  watch  a  grumbling  bee  dust  himself  with  gold 
as  he  forces  his  way  to  the  treasures  of  snapdragon  or  nas- 
turtium, she  never  dares  to  take  a  flower  for  her  own, 
though  they  hold  up  their  pretty  heads  with  mute 
affection  and  seem  to  talk  to  her  in  flower  language. 
When  no  one  is  watching,  Barbara  throws  conscience  to 
the  winds,  and  hunts  the  loose  panel  of  the  iron  fence 
and  slips  off  down  the  road  to  the  washerwoman's.  There 
the  children,  one  and  all,  make  clover  chains  and  pick  the 
four-o' clocks  blooming  industriously  in  the  chicken  yard, 
where  hens  are  dusting  themselves  under  the  sunflowers 


172       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

and  it  is  free  and  pleasant  in  the  shade  of  an  old  apple 
tree. 

It  is  a  fete  day  when  Barbara  comes  to  our  garden. 
The  architect  had  no  hand  in  its  planning,  and  near  the 
close  of  the  summer  its  beauty  shows  the  wear  of  a  season, 
though  some  plants  are  blossoming  valiantly  enough. 
The  strip  of  bed  set  apart  for  Barbara's  pleasure  gives  fun 
to  fill  a  week  of  holidays.  It  is  thick  with  original  plants, 
and,  as  I  think  of  it,  it  reminds  me  of  the  jolly  company 
that  gathers  for  an  annual  picnic,  each  one  with  his  own 
basket  and  his  bag  of  jokes  and  a  riddle  book.  No  feeble, 
characterless  creature  was  invited  in.  The  lady's-slippers 
brought  their  trees  of  flowers  and  bursting  seeds,  Job's- 
tears  carried  silver  beads,  the  balloon  vine  strung  inflated 
green  bubbles  along  its  climbing  stem,  the  flycatcher 
spread  its  molasses  around  its  stem  to  trap  the  little  ants 
and  gnats,  and  a  big  clump  of  four-o'clocks  opened 
promptly  with  the  clock,  and  then  slept  late  in  the  morn- 
ing sunshine. 

Among  the  evils  to  be  trampled  down  in  the  ascent 
to  the  higher  life  the  poet  Longfellow  prayed  to  be  de- 
livered from  "irreverence  for  the  dreams  of  youth."  In 
those  youthful  dreams  are  the  forget-me-nots,  the  sensi- 
tive plants,  bachelors' -buttons,  Canterbury  bells,  colum- 
bines, love-in-tangle,  snapdragons,  dusty  millers,  ragged 
robins,  immortelles,  and  black-eyed  Susans  that  the 
garden  architect  scorns. 


fERRACE  WALK,   HOME  OF  MRS.   FRANCES  HODGSON   BURNETT, 
KENT,    ENGLAND 


IN   ELYSIAN    FIELDS  173 

The  humbler  ^members  of  the  larkspur  family,  so  faith- 
ful in  supporting  a  mass  of  blue  color  in  the  artistic  land- 
scape, furnish  spurs  to  make  the  loveliest  larkspur  chains 
for  childish  play.  For  the  same  reason  one  should  encour- 
age daisies,  the  little  pink  English  flower,  "wee,  modest, 
crimson-tipped  thing,"  and  the  marguerite,  by  which  one 
can  tell  if  "he  loves  me  or  loves  not"  and  make  daisy 
chaplets. 

Pinks  great  and  small,  the  sweet  clove  pink,  double 
and  single  pinks,  are  prime  favorites.  Boys  take  most 
kindly  to  pinks,  and  the  husky  lad,  who  sniffs  at  the 
flower  garden  in  general,  tries  to  wear  a  spice  pink  in  his 
buttonhole  as  long  as  the  plants  are  in  bloom.  The  phlox 
drummondii  is  another  boyish  favorite,  though  it  has  no 
tempting  odor.  There  must  have  been  something  appeal- 
ing in  the  star-eyed  design  that  induced  a  boy  to  work 
among  his  phlox  every  day  and  keep  a  small  book  record 
of  thirty-three  different  patterns  of  reds  and  whites,  yel- 
lows and  mauves,  star-eyed  and  ring-eyed,  streaked  and 
splashed  in  freaks  of  color. 

The  petunia  has  color,  and  the  portulaca  is  a  quaint 
plant  if  there  is  not  enough  room  for  another.  Its  juicy 
foliage  sparkles  with  dewy  lights,  its  innocent  flowers  of 
purest  yellows,  reds,  carmines,  and  white,  and  later  the 
curious  seed  pods  make  it  a  never-ending  source  of  delight. 

I  fear  that  the  rank  odor  of  the  marigold  keeps  it  from 
the  place  in  the  affections  that  it  should  have,  but  many  a 


174        THE   JOY    OF    GARDENS 

time  has  a  little  child  gazed  fondly  at  the  golden  frills, 
thinking  of  King  Midas'  "Mary  Gold"  and  the  story  of 
the  golden  touch.  The  cockscomb  and  princes'-feather 
have  their  personal  association  too,  and  the  shining  seeds 
of  cockscomb,  like  so  many  black  pearls,  are  gems  among 
the  treasures  of  children. 

No  one  with  sentiment  would  deny  a  child  all  the  rose- 
geranium  leaves,  all  the  rosemary,  old-man,  lemon  ver- 
bena, and  feverfew  that  it  wanted,  and  the  privilege  to 
make  bouquets  after  any  fashion  that  it  saw  fit.  More 
than  one  little  Barbara  pines  for  a  garden  in  which  to  put 
the  plants  and  to  pluck  them  as  she  will;  and  the  very 
best  time  to  decide  on  such  a  garden  for  next  year  is  just 
now. 

The  phrases  of  the  Good  Book  are  eloquent  of  a  com- 
mon-sense wisdom  which  we  do  not  always  accept  as  we 
should  to  our  own  enlightenment.  The  oft-repeated  text, 
"Eyes  have  they  and  see  not,  ears  have  they  and  hear 
not,"  is  one  of  the  finest  educational  warnings  ever  writ- 
ten. The  children's  garden  is  more  than  a  passing  amuse- 
ment. Its  possibilities  are  so  many  that  we  shall  be 
forgiven  if  we  do  not  attempt  to  master  them  all. 

The  crime  of  crimes  is  that  of  selfishness,  and  of  gar- 
dens be  it  said  that  they  of  all  things,  next  to  the  nurture 
of  a  little  child,  have  no  place  for  idle  coddling  of  the 
weeds  of  self-indulgence.  They  may  open  the  eyes  to 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  beauty  and  interest  in  the  marvels 


IN    ELYSIAN    FIELDS  175 

of  nature,  and  ask  for  an  unselfish  care  to  be  rewarded 
with  the  response  of  sweet  returns.  It  is  theirs  to  awaken 
curiosity  for  plants  everywhere,  and  to  open  the  ears  to 
the  songs  of  birds,  the  insect  orchestra  which  dwells 
within  gardens,  and  all  the  while  to  sharpen  the 
inner  spiritual  sight  to  things  invisible  yet  present  in  the 
atmosphere. 

From  the  child's  garden  of  simple  plants  to  the  fields 
is  a  short  step,  and  at  autumn  how  glorious  is  the  treat ! 
A  neglected  pasture  is  a  paradise.  Here  the  mints  riot 
after  their  own  fashion ;  bergamot,  horsemint,  and  others 
of  various  names  that  have  lingered  past  the  summer,  fill 
the  air  with  a  pungent  scent;  and  here  live  the  late  cone 
flowers  and  the  rudbeckias.  Some  vervain  may  wave  its 
blue  spears  here. 

The  milkweed  is  busy  filling  its  pods  of  silk,  and  the 
everlastings  are  trimming  their  snowy  flowers  to  make  a 
good  appearance  before  frost.  Ironweed  and  fireweed 
and  butterfly  weed  stayed  as  long  as  the  warm  days. 
Their  roseate  mauves  and  dull  purples  gave  rich  hues  to 
the  spread  of  color.  Down  in  the  grass,  the  silene,  the 
starry  and  bladder  campions,  loosestrife  and  turtlehead 
and  ladies'-tresses  go  on  flowering  as  if  autumn  was  not 
near.  Here  the  closed  gentian,  sturdier  than  the  fringed, 
makes  bluer  its  globes  to  match  the  sky,  and  perhaps  wild 
chicory  along  the  edge  of  the  harvest  field  mirrors  its 
cerulean  hues.  The  boneset  and  tansy  tower  above  the 


176        THE   JOY    OF    GARDENS 

grass;  the  leaves  of  the  sassafras  blush  scarlet;  and  the 
flower  hunter,  gathering  them  all,  goes  home  through 
the  purple  twilight  laden  with  the  spoils  of  the  last  of  the 
procession  of  flowers. 

Overwork  should  be  counted  among  the  unpardonable 
sins.  Too  often  the  day  of  labor  stretches  beyond  the 
eight  hours  and  cuts  off  the  needed  spell  of  leisure. 
Many  of  us  are  so  deeply  dyed  in  this  sin  of  incessant 
work  that  the  conscience  does  not  trouble  us  while  we  are 
pushing  the  spade  or  weeding  with  aching  back,  and  for- 
getting that  we  are  not  giving  praise  for  fair  skies  and 
sunshine. 

But  just  as  soon  as  the  play  feeling  comes  upon  us, 
and  we  should  like  to  be  children  once  more,  frolic  with 
the  lambs,  make  crowns  of  oak  leaves,  and  disport  with 
nature,  up  rises  the  warning  voice,  "Thou  shalt  labor," 
and  we  are  overburdened  with  the  idea  that  all  is  wrong. 
If  by  chance  a  friend  comes  along  who  believes  in  the 
gospel  of  play  and  in  the  religion  of  leisure,  our  spirits 
may  take  a  holiday,  yet  never  forgetting  the  sneaking 
sense  of  guilt. 

There  should  be  moments  to  gratify  the  longing  for 
joy,  though  common  sense  tells  us  the  battle  between 
order  and  disorder  is  continuing  among  the  pansies  and 
the  dahlias  as  well  as  in  the  business  marts.  While  Tho- 
reau  contemplated  society  from  his  solitude  near  Walden 
Pond  he  made  the  conclusion  that  "a  broad  margin  of 


IN   ELYSIAN   FIELDS  177 

leisure  is  as  beautiful  in  a  man's  life  as  in  a  book.  Haste 
makes  waste  no  less  in  life  than  in  housekeeping.  Yet  the 
man  who  does  not  betake  himself  at  once  desperately  to 
sawing  is  called  a  loafer,  though  he  may  be  knocking  at 
the  door  of  heaven  all  the  while,  which  shall  surely  be 
opened  to  him." 

The  ideal  life  would  know  how  to  measure  labor  and 
leisure.  Life  without  innocent  joy  is  dwelling  in  penal 
servitude,  for  bread  and  butter  do  not  feed  the  soul,  and 
the  slave  may  have  food  and  clothes  and  shelter.  Then 
let  us  apportion  our  days — time  for  work  and  time  for 
play — and  let  the  children  into  the  secret.  If  ours  is  the 
right  eloquence  in  spreading  the  gospel  of  leisure  and  the 
spirit  of  innocent  play,  the  next  generation  will  have  a 
finer  cheerfulness. 

We  may  knock  at  the  door  of  heaven,  giving  praise  in 
pleasure  as  well  as  in  work.  Religion  with  a  sour  face 
and  downcast  eye  was  invented  by  the  evil  one,  we  know, 
because  it  is  so  hard  to  follow  when  the  natural  world, 
free  to  the  hand  of  the  Creator,  smiles  and  is  glad. 

A  subtle  fancy  may  question  what  curse  sealed  the 
door  of  the  senses  that  man  should  live  blind  to  the  sub- 
limity of  the  heavens  and  the  panorama  of  the  year,  deaf 
to  the  music  of  the  winds  and  nature's  songsters,  and 
unheedful  of  the  summons  of  the  divine  upon  earth,  until 
wisdom  unlocks  the  gates  to  joy. 

Who  can  cast  a  shadow  when  there  is 


178        THE    JOY    OF    GARDENS 

"A  haze  on  the  far  horizon, 
An  infinite  tender  sky, 
The  ripe,  rich  tint  of  the  cornfields, 
And  the  wild  geese  sailing  high; 

Knd  all  over  upland  and  lowland 

The  charm  of  the  goldenrod — 
Some  of  us  call  it  Autumn, 

And  others  call  it  God." 

As  the  night  falls,  the  beauty  lingers.  Though  as- 
sured yesterday  that  summer  had  taken  her  gentle  pres- 
ence away,  the  evening  was  warm  and  fragrant.  The 
children  had  gathered  herb  balls,  twisting  the  stems  and 
dried  leaves  to  place  among  their  linen,  and  the  house  was 
redolent  with  minty  vapors,  while  through  the  open  win- 
dow stole  the  breath  of  autumn,  perfumed  with  calamus 
and  the  odor  of  ripening  grasses. 

A  mystic  autumn  night  is  such  an  opportunity  for 
revelings!  Let  us  call  together  the  children,  fling  wide 
the  doors,  and,  escaping  from  the  familiar  paths  of  the 
home  inclosure,  cross  the-  lots  to  the  wood  and  the  walnut 
grove. 

How  fast  the  shackles  of  convention  fell  from  the 
limbs  as  we  climbed  the  fences  and  hasted  along  in  Indian 
file,  the  dullest  alive  in  the  freedom  of  rapid  motion. 
The  full  moon  looked  over  the  eastern  tree  tops,  with  a 
ruddy  face  diffusing  a  pale  light  that  did  not  penetrate 


IN    ELYSIAN    FIELDS  179 

the  shaded  places,  and  above,  the  stars  hung  like  dia- 
mond lanterns  in  the  arch  of  heaven.  Turning  from  the 
grassy  road  into  the  thicket,  a  fusillade  of  fairy  shot  from 
the  witch-hazel  brush  bombarded  the  advancing  troop.  A 
gray  owl  hooted  derisively,  and  a  sleepy  crow  made  a 
cynical  protest,  while  there  was  a  flutter  of  heavy  birds 
among  the  dry  leaves  of  the  oak,  and  a  ghostly  four- 
footed  beast,  gray  and  lithe,  checked  the  happy  shouts  of 
the  young  folks  as  it  slipped  across  the  path  silently  out  of 
sight,  uncanny  and  weird,  until  a  plaintive  "meow"  be- 
trayed the  unrecognized  family  cat  prowling  for  field 
mice. 

The  opened  consciousness  sharpened  in  the  culture  of 
the  garden  awakened  every  child  instinct  to  sights  and 
sounds  of  the  grove.  Who  will  ever  forget  the  foray 
among  the  walnuts  and  hickories,  or  the  picture  of  the 
blazing  bonfire,  the  sparks  flying  upward  in  jewels  of 
light  to  vanish  in  the  gloom  intensified  by  the  contrast  of 
ruddy  flames'?  On  the  edge  of  the  circle  yellow  pen- 
nants of  the  witch-hazel  fluttered  as  if  waved  by  the 
hands  of  gnomes,  and  the  snapping  of  twigs  and  fall  of 
nuts  created  a  new  world  of  sight  and  sound. 

At  last,  when  the  logs  had  burned  low,  the  happy  troop 
trailed  back  as  they  had  come,  the  physical  senses  stimu- 
lated by  the  odors,  the  mysterious  rustlings,  the  scented 
atmosphere,  and  the  glamour  of  autumn  veiled  in  the 


i8o       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

silver  moonlight  now  illuminating  the  earth  to  the  far 
horizon.  The  village  streets  were  deserted,  here  and  there 
a  light  glimmering  among  the  trees;  and  the  old  gypsy 
spirit  of  pilgrims  abroad  in  the  House  of  the  Open  Door 
under  the  curtains  of  the  star-gemmed  sky  possessed  one 
and  all  with  a  feeling  of  unreality. 

But  the  day  had  not  ended.  Behind  the  hedge  of  our 
own  garden  a  stout-hearted  cricket  was  beating  its  drum, 
the  windows  were  ablaze,  and  one  left  behind  cried  the 
news  that  the  night-blooming  cereus  in  the  southwest 
nook  by  the  porch,  sheltered  and  discouraged  the  summer 
through,  had  at  this  late  day  opened  its  miracle  of  bloom. 

All  fell  upon  their  knees  on  the  grass  to  look  at  the 
tropic  flower  without  peer,  virginal  and  lovely,  gleaming 
in  the  light  of  many  candles.  Heaven  had  granted  an- 
other rare  surprise  of  beauty  when  nature  by  many  signs 
had  dropped  her  curtain  on  the  pageant  of  blossoming 
plants.  Under  the  warmth  of  the  aftermath  of  summer 
it  had  come  into  its  own,  and  lo !  as  we  looked,  from  the 
silent  reaches  of  the  darkness  a  large  white  moth  came 
floating  on  wings  of  pale  silver  and  green  to  touch  the 
heart  of  the  flower. 

In  all  creation  is  there  a  diviner  miracle?  Who  says 
that  we  have  fallen  on  evil  times'?  Who  can  have  doubt 
in  gardens'?  The  spirit  of  peace,  of  beauty,  and  of 
mystery  is  abroad  in  sunshine  and  in  starlight,  elevating 
the  thoughts  to  nobler  ideals. 


IN    ELYSIAN    FIELDS  181 

"'A.  garden  is  a  lovesome  thing,  God  wot! 
Rose  plot, 

Fringed  pool, 
Fern'd  grot — 

The  veriest  school 

Of  peace ;  and  yet  the  fool 
Contends  that  God  is  not — 
Not  God !  in  gardens !  when  the  eve  is  cool  ? 

Nay,  but  I  have  a  sign ; 

'T  is  very  sure  God  walks  in  mine." 

Remember  this,  ye  of  little  faith,  and  be  glad,  for  it  is 
the  law  and  the  gospel  of  the  poet. 


ESCAPED  FROM  GARDENS 

SOON  after  the  equinox,  the  wild  woods  being  ablaze 
with  ripening  leaves,  we  go  miles  to  the  north  on  a 
crooked  river  to  spy  out  the  shrubs  that  will  bear  trans- 
planting within  our  gates.  The  fruits  and  seeds  are  in 
winter  dress,  and  the  fine  shapes  of  branches  and  twigs 
are  apparent.  What  a  fine  hedge  of  witch-hazel  would 
grow,  if  it  would  take  kindly  to  a  civilized  neighborhood ! 
Its  yellow  pennants  flutter  gayly,  and  its  popping  fruits 
and  grotesque  bushes  are  decorations  not  to  be  despised. 

Chill  weather  comes  early  in  the  north  woods  of  the 
river  country.  The  frost  sprite  was  abroad  the  night  we 
slept  before  a  fire  of  logs  in  the  cabin.  It  had  spun 
threads  of  silver  across  the  water  buckets  at  the  well,  and 
thrown  a  veil  of  sparkling  velvet  over  the  meadows.  The 
woodbines  draping  dead  trees  were  battle  flags  of  burn- 
ing red,  and  the  sumach  was  scarlet  among  weeds  of 
yellows  and  bronze.  The  witch-hazel  pennants  were  pale 
and  frosted,  hanging  forlornly. 

In  the  hollows  of  the  road  thin  ice  crackled  under  foot, 
wild  geese  were  flying  southward,  and  the  squirrels  chat- 
tering of  winter  stores  in  the  hickories.  The  gophers 
182 


ESCAPED    FROM   GARDENS      183 

frisked  before  us  with  cheeks  pouched  with  nuts  and  corn, 
exciting  the  blue  jays  that  screamed  their  discontent  in 
reply  to  crow  philosophy  cawed  in  the  grove  across  the 
ravines.  All  nature  was  prophetic  of  winter,  though 
autumn  would  linger  yet  a  little  longer. 

Our  home  garden,  protected  from  north  and  west 
winds,  still  flaunts  the  latest  blossoms  of  summer.  But 
here  it  is  autumn,  forest  and  plain  reminiscent  of  the 
changing  year  and  the  ebb  and  flow  of  life.  Even  the 
friends  of  childhood  still  living  in  their  old  homes  in  this 
out-of-the-way  neighborhood  repeat  the  thought  that  this 
familiar  planet  on  which  we  dwell  maybe  has  reached  its 
November. 

An  ancient  road  from  a  woodcutter's  clearing  twisted 
and  turned  among  stumps  and  outcropping  rocks,  the  gray 
bones  of  the  hill  ridge.  To  the  fancy  it  played  a  game  of 
hide  and  seek  with  some  forest-born  "Brushwood  Boy." 
It  descended  into  the  valley  to  a  glen  that  might  have 
been  the  abiding  haunt  of  gnomes,  and  then,  with  a  short 
turn  across  a  brook  and  over  a  rocky  steep,  it  entered  a 
sylvan  glade  where  cardinal  flowers  showed  red  under  a 
protection  of  hardy  bracken,  and  near  a  shallow  pool  pros- 
pered a  colony  of  fringed  gentian,  blue  as  if  cut  from  the 
celestial  curtains  of  the  sky. 

Then  the  winding  road  turned  its  back  on  fairyland 
and  clambered  between  bowlders  to  an  open  plateau 
and  the  mournful  reminders  of  a  deserted  farm.  The 


184       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

windows  were  shutterless,  the  doors  of  the  tottering  house 
unhinged. 

The  glass  panes  reflected  the  light  with  an  unmeaning 
stare,  and,  as  the  cloud  shadows  obscured  the  sun,  myste- 
rious presences  seemed  to  look  forth  and  vanish  in  the 
vacant  rooms  beyond.  The  fitful  breeze  flapped  the  gar- 
den gate,  rustling  the  tangle  of  forgotten  rosebushes,  and 
stirred  the  tall  growth  of  asters  as  if  a  mysterious  some- 
thing came  along  the  weedy  paths  and  passed  on  to  the 
gloom  of  the  forest  road. 

A  neglected  garden  is  the  best  book  on  hardy  flowers. 
Its  record  is  written  by  time,  for  only  the  fittest  to  fight 
out  a  battle  with  dry  seasons  or  wet,  cold  winters,  hot 
summers,  and  voracious  insects  and  usurping  weeds  live 
over  a  season.  Here  above  the  fence  looked  the  coarse 
yellow  marigold,  the  sweet  Williams  had  established 
themselves  in  a  community,  and  row  upon  row,  all  in  the 
pride  of  vainglory,  grew  the  self-sown  cockscombs,  claim- 
ing the  right  of  numbers. 

Still  triumphant  amid  the  forlorn  tangle  of  the  deserted 
garden,  cockscomb  awaits  in  defiance  the  approach  of  win- 
ter. It  holds  its  head  high  above  its  woody  pedestal  and 
looks  across  the  vacant  spaces  where  goldenrod  and  mari- 
gold once  held  sovereign  sway.  Gone  are  the  flowery 
train.  Cockscomb  alone  retains  a  vestige  of  the  splendor 
of  royal  crimson.  Though  wounded  by  the  midnight  frost 
and  sadly  battered  by  the  gales,  it  seems  to  proclaim: 


COURT  OF  THE   SULTANA,   GENERALIFE   PALACE,  GR 


ESCAPED   FROM   GARDENS      185 

"Manners  maketh  the  man;  behold  my  temper;  I  shall 
endure  to  the  end." 

Cockscomb  is  a  prolific  producer  in  the  economy  of  the 
natural  world.  It  owns  not  a  stingy  fiber.  From  the  ten 
thousand  cells  of  its  plumed  florescence  it  brings  to  light 
as  many  brilliant  black  pearls,  pearls  more  precious  than 
those  treasured  in  a  reliquary,  the  sharito  of  the  Buddhist. 
These  never  play  false  to  the  devout  soul.  They  are  in 
truth  "breeding  pearls,"  and  if  the  dusky  gems  found  in 
ashes  of  a  consumed  saint  refuse  to  bear  a  life  for  the  next 
generation  by  some  fault  of  conscience  of  the  devotee, 
the  reliquary  of  the  cockscomb  ever  keeps  its  promise. 

With  the  spring  it  gives  birth  to  a  jaunty,  frilled  flower 
top,  a  miracle  of  creation  that  steadfastly  preaches  to  the 
listening  world  the  philosophy  of  the  "flower  in  the  cran- 
nied wall": 

"Could  I  know  you  all  in  all 
I  should  know  what  God  and  man  is." 

Cockscomb  sets  no  price  in  its  riches  of  seed  pearls.  It 
scatters  with  lavish  prodigality.  With  a  shake  of  its 
head  it  lies  down  under  the  first  snowdrift  and  lets  the 
future  take  care  of  itself.  Its  short  life  presents  the  spec- 
tacle of  duties  done  and  the  joy  of  inconsequence.  Its 
folk  are  the  bourgeoisie  of  the  autumnal  garden.  They 
are  conspicuous  and  assertive,  and  must  be  the  observed 


186       THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

of  observers,  whether  ruddy  or  colorless,  dwarfed  or  tall, 
slender  or  corpulent,  according  to  individual  traits.  All, 
from  the  giant  to  the  dwarf,  are  collectors  of  black 
pearls;  all  enjoy  the  air  they  breathe  and  add  a  quota  to 
nature's  great  museum. 

While  the  curious  west  wind  shakes  the  black  pearls 
from  the  receptacles  of  the  cockscomb,  at  the  same  time  he 
tears  snowy  locks  from  the  head  of  Madam  Thistle,  and 
Fairy  Thistledown  spreads  its  snowy  parachute  and  sails 
away  wherever  fate  may  will.  Madam  Thistle  is  shut 
out  from  Eden.  Across  the  fence,  along  the  dusty  road 
where  the  shallow  earth  barely  veils  the  rock  ridge,  she 
must  make  the  best  of  an  existence  on  sufferance.  But 
such  is  the  paradox  of  life;  bourgeois  cockscomb  is  cher- 
ished in  good  society;  aristocratic  thistle  receives  scanty 
recognition.  Pride  and  the  consciousness  of  an  ancient 
lineage  afford  her  consolation. 

My  Lady  Thistle  loves  the  appearance  of  luxury. 
Wherever  fortune  grants  her  a  foothold  she  spreads  out 
her  skirts  of  foliage  with  careful  art.  Each  leaf  is  per- 
fect with  handsome  curves  and  thorny  spines  guarding  a 
luscious  green  surface.  The  stem  might  have  been  copied 
from  the  device  of  some  clever  engineer ;  but  truth  puts  it 
just  the  other  way — the  engineer  studied  nature's  con- 
struction and  borrowed  wit  from  the  plant  stem. 

Most  wonderful  of  all  is  the  blossom  that  crowns  my 
Lady  Thistle.  Set  in  a  cup  of  green,  protected  and 


ESCAPED    FROM   GARDENS      187 

adorned  with  unmatchable  art  in  foliage  and  coloring,  is 
the  cluster  of  purple  flowerets.  Time  was  when  the  bot- 
anists gave  recognition  of  this  perfection,  and  all  the 
flower  tribes  of  composite  were  united  under  the  name 
"Thistle  family."  But  sentiment  has  vanished,  and  now 
we  tack  nomenclature  to  science. 

Thistle  bloom  gowned  in  Tyrian  purple,  with  the  rare 
perfume  from  Araby  and  nectar  cells  inviting  the  bees, 
gossamer-winged  gnats,  and  butterflies,  is  the  center  of 
rustic  festivities  on  a  midsummer  day.  When  the  gay 
whirl  of  pleasure  has  spent  its  brief  hour,  the  flowerets 
sleep  for  a  night  and  wake  with  the  next  sunny  dawn  to 
shake  out  a  mane  of  powdered  locks  and  set  sail  a  million 
winged  arrows  pointed  for  mischief. 

Then  merrily  soar  the  Thistledowns  to  plant  the  fields 
for  the  coming  summer.  The  weed  killer  abroad  with 
bonfire  and  hoe  looks  after  them  as  if  they  were  a  flight 
of  mischief-loving  sprites  bent  on  adventure. 

"Trifles  light  as  air,"  he  muses.  "When  the  bread- 
makers  and  Beauty's  children  have  gone  to  rest,  these  re- 
main— the  trifles  light  as  air.  My  Lady  Thistle,  I  love 
you,  just  for  your  inconsequence.  The  world  is  peopled 
with  sorrow  makers,  with  hard  workers  and  tramps  and 
idlers.  Nature  gives  you  but  one  short  year,  a  wondrous 
beauty,  and  a  prickly  sheath  to  keep  lovers  at  a  distance. 
For  all  the  cruelty  of  circumstance,  you  seem  to  make  the 
best  of  things.  Yours  is  the  light  heart  and  the  joy. 


i88       THE   JOY    OF    GARDENS 

Alone  you  are  innocent;  with  a  following  you  would  be  a 
menace  to  society.  For  this  I  cast  you  upon  the  blazing 
pyre  from  which  the  smoke  rises  in  thank  offering  for 
the  blessings  of  autumn." 

Mints,  calamus,  herbs,  roots,  and  pine  cones  brought 
from  the  hilltop  made  a  fragrant  smoke  as  the  weed  fire 
died  to  its  embers.  The  weed  killer  and  his  company 
passed  along  on  the  road  by  which  we  had  come,  uproot- 
ing and  looking  for  stranger  plants  waiting  to  make  in- 
roads on  the  next  year's  crops.  The  blackberry  tangles,  a 
place  of  joy  to  flower  lovers,  knew  no  mercy,  because 
these  are  the  hosts  of  the  wheat  rusts. 

A  chill  blast  coming  like  a  mighty  sign  from  the  north, 
a  flurry  of  snowflakes  from  the  clouds,  bade  us  hasten  on 
to  the  lowlands,  where  the  amber  of  a  declining  sun 
painted  a  land  in  which  it  seemed  ever  afternoon.  Here 
the  farmers  were  weed  burning  too,  and  neat  housewives 
cleaning  gardens.  It  was  a  weedy  paradise  on  either  side 
of  the  road,  as  if  human  foresight  had  been  bent  upon 
affairs  at  home,  forgetting  that  mischief-makers  were 
gathering  burs  in  the  public  highway  to  make  ready  for  an 
onslaught  of  mischief. 

How  scornfully  we  speak  of  those  who  vegetate !  Thus 
are  we  guilty  of  flippancy  of  thought  and  speech.  Judg- 
ment and  reason  are  lacking  when  we  overlook  the  power 
of  the  creatures  of  vegetation.  We  imagine  that  they  are 
tied  to  the  earth,  prisoners  of  circumstance.  Far  from  it. 


ESCAPED   FROM   GARDENS     189 

This  notion  is  a  pleasant  fiction.  The  botanist  does  not 
romance  when  he  says  that  they  have  appropriated  vices 
as  well  as  virtues;  that  among  them  are  parasites  and 
thieves ;  that  saints  and  martyrs  of  the  wronged  and  help- 
less of  the  plant  world  cry  out  for  mercy,  and  should  have 
a  reward  from  the  accounts  written  down  in  the  records 
kept  by  the  guardian  angels  of  all  who  suffer  without 
reason. 

Naughty  Tommy  and  silly  Jenny  making  mud  pies  on 
the  edge  of  the  prairie  may  tell  a  thing  or  two  from  the 
tragic  histories  of  creatures  that  vegetate.  They  know 
that  a  tribe  of  plantain  crept  across  the  front  yard, 
crushed  humbler  plants  out  of  existence,  and  kept  incar- 
cerated within  a  paling  fence  until  the  intruders  were 
uprooted. 

Have  they  not  heard  of  the  crimes  of  wheat  rust,  of  en- 
croaching tares  and  Canada  thistles?  Have  they  not 
wept  over  the  ban  against  the  starry  blossoms  that  make 
the  daisy  chains?  And  now,  as  they  peep  above  the  tall 
grass,  another  army  of  tramps  rushes  down  the  dusty 
road,  tumbling  before  the  Indian  summer  breeze,  joying 
in  its  balmy  breath,  and  paying  toll  to  all  the  roadside 
fertility  by  showering  crops  of  seed  for  next  year's  har- 
vest— tramps  indeed  more  dangerous  than  any  from  the 
hosts  of  the  unwashed  from  the  London  slums. 

"Russian  thistle  out  for  mischief,"  said  the  farmer, 
stopping  his  team.  "This  is  the  first  bunch  of  the  pest 


igo       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

that  has  tumbled  into  this  county.  When  last  heard  from 
it  had  taken  root  just  the  other  side  of  the  line.  Here, 
you  children,  help  me  gather  up  the  stuff.  We'll  go  back 
to  the  crossroads  in  our  hunt  and  make  a  bonfire.  Maybe 
I  can  find  a  yellow  pippin  for  each  of  you.  This  is  worse 
than  any  tramp  that  follows  the  railroad.  One  thing  we 
can  say  for  it  is  that  it  pays  first  and  eats  last.  But  I 
have  known  other  villains  to  spend  less  money  to  carry 
out  a  bigger  robbery." 

Russian  thistle  thieves  from  the  farmer,  and  keeps  busy 
sending  out  scouts  to  do  mischief  to  its  neighbors.  It 
sucks  the  life  out  of  the  soil,  wearing  its  best  clothes  while 
it  does  it.  In  the  spring  it  pushes  a  pretty  green  head  out 
of  the  ground,  blushes  pale  pink,  turns  crimson,  and  looks 
so  innocent  that  you  hate  to  pull  it  up.  Its  beauty  para- 
lyzes the  weed  killer.  All  summer  long  its  good  looks 
save  it  from  suspicion.  No  one  remembers  that  it  is  the 
dreaded  thistle. 

When  autumn  comes,  it  puts  on  a  sober  brown  veil ;  it 
dries  to  a  lacy  brown,  bushy  ball,  and  looks  more  harmless 
than  ever.  It  hugs  millions  of  seeds  in  its  pouches.  And, 
as  if  dead  to  harm,  one  fine  morning  lets  loose  and  sails 
away,  no  doubt  laughing  in  its  vegetable  heart  at  the 
trick  it  played.  Now  it  shall  make  merry  after  a  fashion 
of  its  own. 

Its  hour  has  come  for  traveling;  it  is  so  light  that  the 
wind  hurls  it  for  miles,  so  compact  that  it  fails  to  catch 


ESCAPED   FROM   GARDENS     191 

securely  among  other  weeds.  It  blows  about  until  cov- 
ered by  snow  or  caught  in  the  ice ;  but  meanwhile  it  has 
showered  evil  seeds  far  and  wide,  and  accomplished  its 
mission. 

"Tumble weeds  remind  me  of  the  society  tramp,"  re- 
marked the  cynic  who  had  come  along  under  his  umbrella. 
"They  feed  off  the  property  of  the  industrious.  The 
tumbleweeds  usurp  the  fields  of  the  useful,  they  deceive 
the  unwary  by  making  a  show  of  good  clothes  and  im- 
pudent manners,  they  are  careless  of  the  rights  of  others, 
they  abhor  honest  labor,  and  are  the  epitome  of  selfishness. 
'Let  me  live,  and  the  rest  of  the  world  go  hang,'  they  cry. 
To  the  fire  with  them,  good  farmer." 

While  tumbleweed  has  foolishly  bounded  along  the 
highroad,  sowing  disorder  and  discontent,  under  the 
shadows  of  the  hedges  Jenny  notes  here  and  there  a  flower 
favorite  or  humble  shrub  hanging  its  wilted  head. 

Frost  has  not  sent  the  gentian  to  rest,  and  the  starry 
aster  bears  signs  of  good  health.  Why  the  discourage- 
ment of  the  others'?  She  searches  farther,  and  nothing 
alarming  meets  the  eye  other  than  a  delicate  little  vine 
hung  with  clusters  of  pearly  berries. 

"Dodder,"  she  cries  with  disgust.  "Come,  Tommy,  see 
the  horrid  thing  squeezing  the  life  out  of  this  pretty 
flower." 

It  is  too  late  to  tear  the  offending  parasite  from  its 
hold ;  the  mischief  is  done,  but  she  may  save  the  plants  of 


192       THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

next  year  by  gathering  the  dodder  berries  and  casting 
them  into  the  fire  with  the  tumbleweed.  It,  too,  bears  the 
garb  of  innocence,  appearing  an  inoffensive,  slender  vine 
curling  affectionately  about  a  flower  stem.  Like  the  Rus- 
sian thistle,  dodder  belongs  to  the  rank  and  file  of  Satan's 
great  army  of  evildoers. 

"Yes,  dodder  is  another  society  parasite,"  mused  the 
cynic,  rubbing  his  spectacles.  "I  know  the  type  well. 
Under  the  guise  of  gentleness  it  sneaks  into  your  privacy, 
invades  your  secret  thoughts,  feeds  on  your  comforts  and 
hospitality,  and,  while  appearing  well  before  the  world  of 
fashion,  it  gives  not  a  whit  for  its  entertainment  or  its 
living.  The  dodder  parasites  are  among  the  most  hateful 
things  of  society.  They  are  like  leeches,  crying  'More, 
more,'  and  when  they  have  worn  you  out,  wasted  your 
substance,  they  fling  you  aside  and  take  up  with  your 
enemy,  if  he  happen  to  have  comforts  worth  pursuit. 
Root  out  the  dodder,  children;  crush  it  under  your  heel. 
The  woods  and  the  world  are  full  of  dodder  parasites." 


OF  DRIFTWOOD  AND  DREAMS 

"T  T  ERE  hath  been  dawning  another  blue  day" — the 
JLA  blue  day  beloved  by  Ruskin,  when  the  air  is  still. 
Not  a  leaf  stirs  on  the  aspens  waiting  breathlessly  ever  to 
catch  the  breeze.  The  smoke  from  the  chimneys  of  a 
thousand  household  hearths  curls  upward  in  misty  spirals 
higher  and  higher,  like  incense  rising  from  altars  to  reach 
the  far  heavens. 

Who  would  stay  within  doors'?  Not  a  book  on  the 
shelves  or  a  painting  in  the  galleries  colors  pictures  of 
dreams  to  match  the  landscape  of  garden  and  roads  and 
hills  far  away.  The  clear  air  spurs  the  hand  to  make 
things  fairer,  and  the  passion  for  pruning,  weeding,  and 
planning  for  richer  harvests  fills  the  morning  hours.  We 
are  hungry  for  conquest,  all  aglow  to  collect  what  re- 
mains in  the  hedgerows  and  has  stayed  to  beautify  the 
plantations. 

Some  one  whispered  that  the  orphan  school  was  to  pass 
this  way  for  their  monthly  fete  in  the  grove.  Ought  they 
not  to  have  more  than  bread  for  their  outing*?  Every 
flower  in  blossom  and  in  bud  must  be  clipped  and  tied 
into  neat  little  posies,  to  make  gay  with  color  and  sweet- 
ness. There  is  a  shy  kinship  of  flowers  and  children  about 
193 


194       THE    JOY    OF    GARDENS 

which  we  know  so  little,  since  we  have  forgotten  the 
"glories  whence  we  came." 

The  message  sent  to  the  door  bespoke  plain  food.  Why 
not  cake"?  Have  the  good  people  ever  thought  that  the 
repressed  little  bodies  clad  in  subduing  gingham  might 
hunger  for  flowers  to  feed  their  souls?  It  was  my  gentle 
neighbor  who  wound  the  message  about  a  late-blooming 
Japan  lily — "Hast  thou  two  loaves  of  bread?  Then  sell 
one  to  buy  flowers  of  the  narcissus,  for  though  the  bread 
will  nourish  thy  body,  the  flowers  will  strengthen  thy 
soul." 

Mohammed  said  it  long  ago,  repeating  a  message  from 
the  Infinite.  The  mission  of  loveliness  created  in  the 
Garden  of  Eden  has  fed  the  souls  of  poets  and  prophets 
and  those  who  thirsted  by  the  wayside.  What  has  pre- 
served the  ideal  of  beauty  like  -the  rose,  of  purity  like  the 
lily,  of  sweetness  like  the  violet,  of  grace  like  that  of  the 
primrose? 

The  church  clock  struck  nine  as  the  demure  procession 
came  in  sight  under  the  arching  trees.  A  golden  shower 
of  tinted  maple  leaves  floated  down  upon  the  uncovered 
heads  of  little  boys  and  girls,  walking  two  by  two.  The 
leaders  stopped  as  they  reached  the  gate,  as  if  dazzled  by 
the  baskets  of  bloom,  and  stepped  back  abashed  at  the 
offering  of  flowers.  Then,  with  the  quick  acceptance  of 
blessings  natural  to  hopeful  childhood,  both  hands  soon 
reached  out,  and  eyes  shone  on  the  scarlet  of  geranium, 


DRIFTWOOD   AND    DREAMS     195 

the  blue  of  ageratum  and  forget-me-not,  the  white  of  cos- 
mos and  daisy. 

Now  they  have  gone  their  way  to  the  pine  grove,  little 
human  flowers  escaped  from  gardens,  we  take  up  our  task 
again,  wondering  why  more  human  hearts  do  not  grasp 
the  larger  gardening  in  life.  What  nobler  work  for  the 
isolated  on  farms  who  complain  of  loneliness  than  that 
of  transplanting  children  from  asylums  in  the  city  to 
country  homes !  The  childless  man  and  wife  could  gather 
a  company  of  ten  about  them,  and  know  loneliness  never 
again.  The  battle  with  weeds  of  character  in  the  adopted 
plants  is  not  so  desperate  as  the  battle  often  is  with  self 
and  discontent.  And  by  and  by  the  harvest  comes,  when 
the  boys  and  girls  of  a  few  years'  culture  and  pruning  go 
elsewhere  to  make  other  gardens  and  to  call  their  guar- 
dians blessed. 

Life  would  be  a  fairer  fabric  if  we  could  cut  away 
barren  stalks  and  dried  leaves,  and  gather  up  the  waste  of 
a  season  ready  for  the  burning.  We  never  seem  to  know 
when  to  let  go,  and  keep  out  half-dead  begonias  and  pot- 
ted herbs  to  deface  the  order  of  the  front  windows.  It 
takes  courage  to  pull  up  a  sickly  rosebush  or  chop  out  a 
lilac  that  has  harbored  molds  for  years.  We  know  it 
ought  to  be  done,  and  do  we  do  it  as  many  times  as  we 
should? 

Moralizing  is  inspired  by  fall  weather.  When  the 
cleaning  spell  is  upon  me  not  a  corner  of  the  fence  escapes, 


196        THE    JOY    OF    GARDENS 

not  an  out-of-the-way  jut  in  the  wall  which  might  shelter 
a  nesting  caterpillar  or  insect  snuggling  in  comfort  for  the 
winter. 

The  world  is  suspicious  of  the  man  who  willfully  sets 
foot  upon  a  worm,  nor  would  count  him  among  the  most 
desired  of  friends.  There  are  times,  however,  when  a 
neighbor  encroaches  on  his  neighbor's  property,  and  the 
judge  must  decide  which  is  the  fittest  to  survive.  Far  be 
it  from  us  to  callous  our  sentimental  tenderness  for  the 
smallest  of  living  things. 

At  night,  when  the  sun  is  down,  the  flowery  world  is 
a  different  place  from  that  we  know  by  day.  The  colony 
of  toads  which  has  been  protected  for  the  sake  of  their 
fondness  for  insects  preying  on  plants,  goes  awalking  in 
the  dusk.  They  are  a  friendly  company.  They  enjoy 
human  society,  though  the  human  giant  must  look  colos- 
sal to  their  bright  eyes. 

When  any  one  takes  a  book  in  the  late  afternoon  and 
rests  in  a  big  chair  near  the  nasturtiums,  hop-hop  down 
the  path  come  two,  three,  or  more  toads  to  sit  in  an 
admiring  circle.  Company  manners  do  not  interfere 
with  business,  for  a  lightning-motioned  tongue  darts 
rapidly  as  Mr.  Toad  takes  the  good  of  insect  life  coming 
his  way. 

The  cool  of  the  evening  is  an  ever-returning  reminder 
of  how  fair  the  world  can  be,  and  how  at  peace.  The 
flowers  are  grateful  for  the  shadows  and  the  de\v,  lifting 


DRIFTWOOD   AND   DREAMS    197 

their  tired  heads  eagerly.    The  Words worthi an  creed  is 
truest  at  that  hour : 


"To  her  fair  works  did  nature  link 
The  human  soul  that  through  me  ran," 

and  no  scoffer  alive  but,  feeling  the  gracious  mood  of 
poet  and  the  charm  of  eventide,  would  say : 

"Through  primrose  tufts  in  that  green  bower 

The  periwinkle  trailed  its  wreaths ; 
And  't  is  my  faith  that  every  flower 
Enjoys  the  air  it  breathes." 

"The  breezy  call  of  incense-breathing  morn,"  the  dewy 
evening — these  are  the  divine  hours.  All  things  seemed 
to  have  declared  a  truce  between  battles.  By  the  very 
nature  of  the  earthly  scheme,  the  struggle  for  existence  is 
a  battlefield  in  which  the  fight  is  a  furious  one.  The 
Happy  Valley  of  Rasselas  has  never  been  found  but  in 
dreams. 

The  free-lance  career  of  toads  upon  insects  is  matched 
by  the  conduct  of  the  creeping  lizards  domesticated  in  the 
rock  pile.  They  are  the  scourge  of  creepers  and  winged  in 
their  domain.  Innocent  sunning  at  midday  is  only  a  ruse. 
They  are  spying  out  the  playgrounds  of  flies  and  ants. 

The  spiders  are  bandits  of  the  first  order.  It  would 
take  a  lifetime  to  cultivate  an  intimacy  with  the  tribes  at 


ig8       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

war  on  winged  creatures  and  at  sword's  point  with  each 
other.  From  the  big  meadow  spider  with  yellow  stripes 
to  the  uncanny  little  red  spider  the  size  of  a  pin  point  in- 
festing the  roses,  there  are  a  score  of  families  terrible  to 
think  of,  interesting  to  meet. 

The  meadow  spider,  harmless  to  gardeners,  is  a  friendly 
dame.  We  say  dame,  because  it  is  she  who  does  the  spin- 
ning. Mr.  Meadow  Spider  is  a  stranger,  as  spider  lore 
has  not  gone  very  far  among  us.  Mrs.  Meadow  Spider, 
or  her  daughter,  has  come  year  after  year.  It  may  be  con- 
ceit on  our  part,  or  plain  courage  on  hers,  which  permits 
us  to  imagine  that  she  knows  us.  She  sits  very  still  in  the 
midst  of  her  silken-thread  palace  swung  from  the  chrys- 
anthemums to  the  barberries,  and  lets  us  look  at  her 
with  a  reading  glass  and  comment  on  her  surroundings. 

She  is  as  indifferent  to  manners  as  the  toads  and  the 
lizards.  If  we  come  at  the  appointed  hour  she  traps  care- 
less rainbow  flies,  binds  them,  and  devours  them  before 
our  eyes.  With  every  appearance  of  one  contemplating 
nature  for  the  love  of  its  beauty,  she  is  cruel  and  cunning 
— only  waiting  her  chance  to  take  advantage  of  her 
victim. 

I  have  observed,  against  my  will,  that  there  is  an  iron 
hand  in  the  velvet  glove  of  the  morning-glory.  When 
rich  odors  fail  toward  September,  the  tuberose  sends  up  its 
spikes  of  richly  perfumed  blossoms  to  make  fragrant  the 
night.  The  tuberoses  are  the  successors  of  a  clump  of 


DRIFTWOOD   AND    DREAMS     199 

dwarf  white  phlox  which  is  through  blooming  about  tube- 
rose season.  In  the  earlier  summer  the  phlox  make  a 
pretty  green  tangle  above  the  tuberose  plants,  each  giving 
and  taking  amiably. 

The  morning-glories  from  seeds  that  lay  dormant  until 
late  escaped  notice  while  the  phlox  spread  their  stars,  but 
hardly  had  the  tuberose  spikes  set  to  growing  before  the 
morning-glory  tendrils  found  them  out  and  set  forth  to 
climb.  Round  and  round  twined  the  ambitious  vine,  em- 
bracing its  host  with  such  vigor  that  one  day  the  tragedy 
was  discovered.  The  heads  of  tuberose  buds  hung 
withered,  choked  to  death  by  the  vine  which  triumphantly 
swung  bells  of  crystal  and  crimson  above  the  tombs  of 
those  it  had  slain. 

There  is  a  cherished  waxen  asclepias,  as  fragrant  as  the 
tuberose,  which  catches  the  trunks  of  moths  and  butter- 
flies and  hangs  them  by  the  head  when  they  come  for  nec- 
tar and  honey.  Often  on  a  summer  morning  the  ground 
beneath  the  plant  is  a  battlefield  strewn  with  the  bodies 
of  wretched  insects  torn  to  pieces  to  escape  the  trap  of  the 
asclepias.  Should  we  uproot  it  and  fling  it  to  the  winds? 

Now  and  then  a  field  dodder  reaches  its  white  tendrils 
through  the  fence  or  sets  a  foothold  somewhere  in  the 
shrubbery.  This  is  a  parasite  of  the  first  order  in 
crime.  It  throttles  its  victim,  feeds  on  its  life-blood,  and 
dresses  gayly,  affecting  the  thread-lace  airs  to  conceal 
its  depravity. 


200       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

If  it  were  not  for  their  flowery  looks,  who  would  toler- 
ate even  the  catchfly,  trimming  its  gummy  stems  to  trap 
feeble  ants;  or  the  carnivorous  Venus'  flytrap,  or  the 
pitcher-plant  holding  a  deadly  drink*?  How  well  these 
fit  Tennyson's  "Nature  red  in  tooth  and  claw." 

Others  there  are,  crowding  to  the  wall  weaker  plants, 
through  usurping  arrogance.  We  can  understand  why  the 
dandelion,  camomile,  and  roadside  weeds  must  push  and 
hang  on  for  dear  life  if  they  would  survive,  but  why 
plants  in  a  garden  should  pursue  a  selfish  policy  is  not  to 
be  understood.  In  cleaning  time  those  who  give  an  inch 
and  take  an  ell  are  trimmed  back.  The  blue-eyed  forget- 
me-nots,  the  May  pinks,  and  sweet  Williams  are  energetic 
spreaders.  Dividing  plants  and  giving  away  roots  does 
not  lessen  their  numbers ;  they  are  up  and  doing  early  and 
late. 

Tragedy  paints  the  darker  shadows  in  the  pictures  of 
life.  We  cannot  understand,  and  yet  above  it  all  is  the 
unquenchable  faith  that  "all  's  right  with  the  world." 
Though  Tennyson  sang  sadly  of  nature's  cruelty,  its 
gloom,  hiding  the  loss  of  many  lives,  is  dispelled  by  the 
larger  trust.  We  need  but  look  on  the  brighter  side  and 
beyond. 

"From  belt  to  belt  of  crimson  seas, 
O'er  leagues  of  odor  streaming  far, 
To  where  in  yonder  Orient  star 
A  hundred  spirits  whisper  peace." 


DRIFTWOOD   AND   DREAMS    201 

The  poets  loved  gardens.  If  they  have  become  kin  to 
our  sympathy  they  walk  with  us  in  the  flowery  ways — the 
gallant,  gentle  spirit  Edmund  Spenser,  the  myriad- 
minded  Shakspere,  gay  Robert  Herrick,  even  sober 
Milton  and  the  magister  Amadeus  Wolfgang  von 
Goethe. 

Let  memories  of  them  assemble  as  we  gather  the  herbs, 
the  dried  plants,  and  grasses  raked  from  the  paths  and 
beds  to  make  a  sacrificial  fire  to  the  fall  of  the  year.  The 
fragrant  smoke  ascends  in  the  mellowed  sunlight,  shaping 
to  the  figure  of  an  Aladdin's  genie.  Hail  to  the  past  of 
those  who  made  gardens !  All  hail  to  every  flower  lover 
in  the  land!  We  join  our  voices  to  those  who  have  sung 
their  praises  since  time  began. 

Cast  sweet  incense  in  the  flames  with  gum  of  myrrh  to 
recall  the  days  when  shepherds  watched  their  flocks  by 
night  and  wise  men  walked  the  flowery  plains,  following  a 
star  in  the  east. 

Bring  hither  bunches  of  moly  and  rue,  of  sweet  basil 
and  thyme,  of  balm  of  Gilead,  cedar  of  Lebanon,  and 
wreaths  of  bay.  Let  the  smoke  rise  higher  and  higher, 
and  evoke  the  days  of  the  ceremonial  of  Solomon's 
temple,  of  the  Golden  Age  of  Greece. 

Then  break  and  scatter  the  log  of  driftwood,  and 
shatter  the  recollections  of  other  lands  and  scenes  woven 
in  the  wanderings  of  a  lifetime.  Here  to  the  nostrils 
comes  the  scent  of  salt  seas,  of  rolling  breakers  on  a 


202       THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

northern  shore,  of  the  cots  under  the  hill  and  peat  smoke 
dissolving  in  the  blue  of  Irish  skies  at  even.  Who  with 
a  drop  of  Celtic  blood  in  his  veins  will  forget  its  pungent 
odors?  Who  that  has  once  looked  for  fairies  in  the  peat 
fire  will  lose  his  gift  of  seeing  far"? 

The  fire  has  burned  low — the  dead  flowers  have  van- 
ished— ashes  to  ashes.  It  is  night,  and  the  lingering 
cuckoo  is  calling  from  the  distance.  The  doves  have  gone 
to  rest,  the  new  moon  hangs  a  silver  horn  beneath  the 
evening  star,  and  Mercury  holds  his  torch  just  above  the 
western  hills.  In  another  moment  he  will  have  wheeled 
onward. 

Come  within  and  close  the  door.  The  wind  has  risen, 
and  the  same  blast  that  beats  at  the  unlatched  gate  is  toss- 
ing the  ships  far  out  at  sea  and  beating  incessantly  on 
the  shores.  Home-faring  hearts  treasuring  happy  memo- 
ries are  best. 

Light  the  lamp  and  look  what  the  mail  has  brought  in 
a  casket  of  palms  and  ferns.  It  is  the  promise  of  the 
future.  These  dreams  of  daffodils,  tulips,  hyacinths,  and 
lilies  will  not  fade  as  illusions.  Hidden  deep  in  the 
bulbs  lie  the  pledges  of  another  life.  Hope  wings  its 
way,  and  to-morrow  we  '11  do  the  planting. 


IN  GOD'S  ACRE 

1LIKE  to  lean  over  the  garden  fence  and  look  down 
the  long  road  losing  itself  in  the  violet  mists  of  an 
autumn  afternoon.  The  whole  world  becomes  a  garden 
in  St.  Martin's  summer,  and  the  idle  road  lazily  taking  its 
course  between  bending  elms  and  maples  bearing  the  tat- 
tered banners  of  red  and  gold  of  October  foliage  leads  on 
and  on  to  dusky  tangles  where  lingering  blue  gentians  still 
look  to  heaven  with  the  eyes  of  faith,  and  to  forests  where 
the  woodbine  drapes  its  crimson  wreaths,  and  on  and  on, 
no  one  knows  where.  The  dream  escapes  us,  following 
the  vision  ever  going  on  and  on. 

What  will  be  our  mental  state,  I  wonder,  when  we 
have  found  out  all  the  secrets  of  nature.  Knowing  as  we 
do  the  cantankerous  make-up  of  man  and  his  unreliabil- 
ity, why  should  we  want  to  manage  the  weather,  and  to 
discover  the  secrets  of  the  machinery  of  the  solar  system*? 
My  neighbors  have  prayed  for  rain,  but  I  do  not  want  it, 
regarding  every  fair  day  of  autumn  as  so  much  gold  in  the 
treasury  of  esthetic  pleasure.  Suppose  it  should  rain  and 
rain,  from  the  equinox  to  the  solstice,  what  a  sodden  place 
would  be  the  gallery  of  recollections  for  that  season,  and 
203 


204       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

when  should  we  have  had  time  to  do  our  bulb  planting  or 
leaf  burning*? 

For  man  to  have  a  share  in  the  running  of  the  planets 
would  be  dangerous,  we  may  be  sure.  The  chariot  of  the 
sun  would  whirl  off  in  a  tangent,  the  trade  winds  blow 
awry,  and  two  or  three  autocrats  of  a  decade  confuse  nat- 
ural events  for  centuries.  The  rest  of  us  poor  mortals, 
thankful  for  the  vagaries  of  weather,  under  wiser  powers 
than  we  wot  of,  would  have  more  than  our  share  of 
suffering. 

Still  looking  down  the  long  road  which  has  crossed  the 
river  beyond  the  highest  hill,  and  then,  as  we  learned  on 
the  nutting  tramp,  turns  west  and  makes  a  bee  line  di- 
rectly to  the  courts  about  the  setting  sun,  we  give  thanks 
that  we  may  not  know  all  things.  Could  we  foresee  the 
winter  and  the  spring  we  should  be  deprived  of  the  bliss 
of  expectation  and  the  zest  of  ups  and  downs  whose  con- 
trasts make  the  variety  of  life. 

We  should  lose  the  little  surprises,  knowing  all  the 
events  that  matter  to  no  one  but  ourselves — the  year  of 
bloom  of  the  wild  crab  apple,  the  occasional  return  of 
an  oriole  to  nest  in  the  cherry  tree,  the  autumnal  after- 
math of  a  blossoming  wild  rose,  and  November  flowers 
on  the  quince  and  the  blackberry.  These  and,  yes,  the 
accidental  meeting  of  friends  estranged,  and  the  coming 
of  one  new  and  congenial  with  an  affinity  of  tastes.  So 
for  our  part  we  prefer  to  look  down  the  long  road 


IN    GOD'S   ACRE  205 

vanishing  in  the  mists,  burnishing  the  mirror  of  hope  for 
beauty  and  good  which  we  cannot  see  as  yet. 

A  fickle  breeze  rustling  the  bronzed  foliage  of  a  clump 
of  oaks  creeps  groundward  and  blows  the  dried  leaves  to 
play  in  circling  whirlwinds.  The  flock  of  sparrows  that 
have  been  holding  excited  congress  for  some  days  past, 
whether  to  be  or  not  to  be  of  the  migrants  like  other  birds, 
have  grown  sportive  in  the  warm  air,  and  fly  low  in  the 
mysterious  manner  betokening  a  change  in  the  weather. 

The  primeval  stir  in  my  own  veins  that  urges  me  to 
break  down  the  bars  and  walk  over  the  hills  and  far 
afield,  to  follow  the  light  of  the  gypsy-star,  is  akin  to  the 
sparrow  restlessness  which  they  cannot  forget.  It  is  so 
long  ago  since  any  of  their  ancestry  have  taken  the  south- 
ward journey  that  the  instinct  has  become  but  an  echo 
in  the  blood  which  throbs  as  the  sun  goes  south  and  fore- 
warnings  of  winter  appear.  And  then  the  sparrow  flies 
low  among  the  leaves  on  the  ground  while  the  human, 
harking  to  the  same  feeling,  looks  down  the  long  road, 
takes  tramps  by  starlight,  or  plays  a  Chopin  prelude  in 
the  dusk  of  the  gloaming,  and  wonders  at  his  restlessness. 

All  Saints'  Day  has  stolen  upon  us  unawares;  the 
clouds  betokened  the  cold  November  rain,  and  while  we 
searched  the  garden  for  the  lingering  flowers  to  deck  the 
graves  according  to  the  sweet  old  German  custom,  more 
lifted  their  pretty  heads  than  we  had  believed  escaped  the 
continued  succession  of  chilly  nights. 


206       THE   JOY   OF   GARDENS 

There  was  an  abundant  nosegay  ready  for  our  hands. 
The  last  warm-hued  asters,  the  mignonette,  like  a  fragile 
gentleman  growing  strong  in  the  face  of  adversity,  as  fra- 
grant as  in  summer;  the  graceful  daisy-eyed  cosmos;  the 
scented  nicotina,  the  ruddy  marigolds,  and,  shyly  lying 
close  to  the  ground,  the  pansies  still  blooming  cheerily. 
The  rose  geraniums  which  usually  blacken  before  the 
frost  gave  sweet-smelling  branches,  owing  to  our  fore- 
thought in  covering  them,  and  the  salvia  had  fringed 
sprays  of  red  to  add  to  our  treasures. 

Our  little  cemetery  has  been  cleared  of  its  unsightly 
monuments,  and  the  tablets  are  hidden,  sunken  in  the  sod 
or  hidden  in  shrubbery.  It  is  God's  Acre,  where  the 
weary  are  at  rest  and  sleep  close  to  nature's  heart,  while 
the  souls  are  soaring  on  and  on — earth's  fretful  turmoil 
over,  and  the  earthly  labors  done — to  another  life. 

The  fall  of  the  leaf  and  the  fall  of  the  year  have  no 
sadness  for  the  brotherhood  of  gardeners.  The  awaken- 
ing of  spring,  the  bursting  of  bud  and  the  unfolding  of 
leaf,  the  glory  of  the  flower  and  the  ripening  of  fruit 
with  the  perfection  of  seedtime  and  harvest — that  is  all 
of  life.  Our  own  cycle  of  infancy,  youth,  maturity,  and 
age  is  just  like  it — the  year  but  a  little  longer,  the  vicissi- 
tudes of  weather  and  of  cultivators  and  pests  only  another 
kind;  and  when  the  winter  of  life  comes  to  us,  as  it  does 
to  all,  we  too,  like  the  lily  of  the  field,  may  lie  down 
under  the  sod  to  pleasant  dreams  and  a  resurrection. 


IN   GOD'S   ACRE  207 

The  flower  chaplets  of  All  Souls'  Day  are  emblems  of 
the  wreaths  of  love  and  grateful  recollections  that  ascend 
invisible  to  the  spirits  of  the  dear  ones  gone  before,  who 
may  return  on  this  day  of  days  and  join  the  communion 
of  saints.  I  cannot  feel  that  they  have  left  us.  nor  can 
any  who  have  tasted  the  joy  of  gardens  believe  that  with 
winter  the  flowers  lie  dead.  They  gave  us  a  brief  vision 
of  their  beauty  materialized,  and  then  vanished  to  bloom 
in  other  spheres. 

The  last  leaves  are  floating  gently  in  the  still  calm 
air,  a  golden  vapor  that  spread  abroad  when  the  clouds 
blew  to  the  north  at  noon.  St.  Martin  has  returned  to 
walk  in  the  autumn  fields,  and  the  piles  of  burning  leaves 
appear  on  every  side.  The  slender  columns  of  smoke, 
blue  as  if  snatched  from  the  skies,  arise  as  if  from  a  thou- 
sand altars  of  autumn  to  the  feasts  of  All  Souls  and  All 
Saints. 

How  shortsighted  is  the  man  who  believes  that  the  fall 
of  the  year,  and  the  fall  of  the  leaf,  end  all.  Every 
clump  of  grass,  the  humblest  weed,  refutes  such  heresy 
to  the  divine  plan.  Who  that  has  worked  in  gardens 
could  cherish  the  thought  for  an  instant?  The  scattered 
rose  to-day  promises  fairer  beauty  to-morrow,  if  the 
worker  has  done  his  part.  No  melancholy  hours  are  in 
store,  unless  weeds  and  neglect  have  worn  out  the  cour- 
age of  the  plants,  and  they  lie  withered  and  dead,  with 
no  shred  of  hope  to  bind  them  to  to-morrow. 


208       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

This  is  the  punishment  of  the  planter  of  short-lived 
annuals.  He  is  the  man  who  has  made  friends  for  an 
hour's  entertainment,  not  for  a  lifetime;  for,  strange  to 
say,  and  it  always  comes  to  us  as  a  surprise  when  we  dis- 
cover nature  inconsistent,  flowers  in  a  garden  resemble 
the  people  in  a  village. 

If  we  have  chosen  from  the  gentle  and  the  gay,  the 
sturdy  and  the  arrogant,  the  company  will  be  a  varied 
one;  the  weak  will  brace  themselves  against  the  strong, 
the  graces  of  one  will  temper  the  boldness  of  the  other, 
and,  after  storms  have  passed,  some  will  have  weathered 
them  and  remain.  The  year  will  never  be  barren  of 
beauty,  as  the  hearth  will  never  be  vacant  of  friends,  if 
they  have  been  selected  with  wisdom. 

Turn  from  dreams  to  reality.  What  has  been  your 
forethought  of  the  morrow  and  the  spring?  Has  life 
flitted  away  while  you  were  looking  down  the  long  road 
to  fairy  gold  at  the  foot  of  the  rainbow  or  have  you  alter- 
nated work  and  play*? 

In  the  past  of  planting  time  a  wisdom,  looking  ahead 
to  faith  and  hope,  thought  of  November  while  it  was 
May.  Then  were  set  the  shrubs  of  character  which 
promised  cheer  for  the  seasons  as  they  passed — unfolding 
of  leaf  in  spring,  blossoms  in  June,  and  joy  of  exuberant 
growing  in  midsummer.  Now  the  snowberries  are  hang- 
ing like  pearls  against  the  bronzed  leaves,  the  fringes  of 
barberries  trim  the  thorny  branches  with  coral,  the  orange 


IN    GOD'S   ACRE  209 

of  rose  hips  glows  like  topaz  in  the  shadowy  depths  near 
the  ground.  The  switches  of  the  Siberian  dogwood  show 
the  warm  blood  coursing  with  the  sap,  and  the  shrub 
world  has  no  disappointments  in  autumn. 

Through  the  ages  since  long  ago  the  hand  of  destiny 
has  been  weaving  a  fabric  reflecting  the  ebb  and  flow  of 
the  tide  of  life.  It  is  a  richly  hued  tapestry  with  a  splen- 
dor of  lights  made  brilliant  in  contrast  to  dull  shadows, 
and  from  beginning  to  end,  through  them  all,  runs  a 
sunny  thread  ever  leading  toward  dreams  of  future 
unfolding. 

The  design  has  never  approached  completeness.  We 
may  turn  the  leaves  of  history,  follow  its  pageants  of 
glory,  its  masques  of  comedy,  its  interludes  of  tragedy, 
and  the  strand  of  hope  weaves  on  and  on,  unraveled  and 
unbroken  in  sunny  luster;  and  as  we  look  beyond  to-day 
we  watch  it  dipping  below  the  horizon  of  to-morrow, 
whither  the  imagination  takes  courage  to  cling  to  its 
certainty. 

This  sun  ray  penetrates  the  clouds  of  an  unpromising 
spring  and  burnishes  the  gold  of  a  fruitful  summer. 
Now,  as  winter  is  at  hand,  it  shines  again  in  St.  Mar- 
tin's weather,  and  if  to-night  a  prophetic  snow  cloud 
throws  a  purple  bar  across  the  west,  if  dawn  is  gray  and 
chill,  be  sure  that  the  torch  of  hope  is  flashing  out  some- 
where, and  if  we  were  watching  between  the  hours  we 
would  catch  a  glimpse  of  its  light.  All  this  is  visible  in 


210       THE   JOY    OF   GARDENS 

the  skies  above  the  garden ;  and  this  we  know,  if  we  have 
kept  step  with  a  pilgrim's  progress,  that  hope  has  never 
flitted  out  of  reckoning. 

The  sun  has  dropped  behind  the  distant  hill  where 
eternal  fires  seem  to  blaze  against  the  sky  behind  the 
cypresses  in  God's  Acre.  A  glory  not  of  earth  reflects 
from  the  church  spire,  "pointing  to  heaven  like  a  finger 
in  the  sky,"  teaching  of  faith  in  everlasting  good.  The 
fall  anemone,  opening  its  white  petals  in  the  dried  grass 
along  the  road,  carries  the  message  from  paradise  to 
earth. 

Turn  your  back  on  the  winding  road,  you  of  little 
faith.  Plant  to-day,  that  in  spring  you  may  have  purest 
joy.  The  garden  awaits  the  beginning  of  a  newer  and 
more  joyous  season.  The  work  of  one  year  has  rounded 
through  a  cycle  of  seedtime  and  harvest.  Turn  the 
brown  earth  with  industry,  and  deep  in  the  heart  of 
nature  plant  the  modest  crocus,  the  daffodil,  the  lily  of 
Easter,  the  tulip  with  her  chalice  for  heavenly  vintage; 
and  when  the  snows  of  winter  retreat  before  the  return- 
ing spring,  make  festival  in  the  garden  and  wreathe  its 
altars  with  garlands,  for  the  resurrection  of  life  is  at 
hand,  and  nature  is  true  to  the  heart  that  loves  her. 

THE   END 


APPENDIX 
AN  ALL-THE-YEAR  GARDEN 

A  GARDEN  of  persistent  perennials  may  be  so 
planted  that  it  will  result  in  bloom  and  color  the 
year  round.  The  plants  may  be  chosen  to  produce  a 
succession  of  flowers  until  late  in  the  winter,  and  some 
of  the  evergreen  varieties  will  put  forth  shy  pansies, 
violets,  or  Christmas  roses  (helleborus),  under  the  shelter 
of  dry  shrubbery,  when  snow  lies  on  the  ground. 

When  chosen  with  the  color  idea  in  mind  the  fruits 
and  bark  of  certain  kinds  of  shrubbery  exhibit  distinct 
shades  of  red,  green,  brown,  and  gray,  becoming  more 
attractive  as  winter  turns  toward  spring.  The  groups  of 
fruiting  shrubs  with  rose  hips,  snowberries,  bush  cran- 
berries, wahoo,  hops,  or  dark  berries  are  pleasing  in  the 
gloomiest  weather. 

It  is  best  to  begin  an  "all-the-year"  garden  on  a  small 
scale,  adding  desirable  plants  as  they  are  discovered.  If 
the  space  is  limited,  each  group  of  perennials  must  con- 
tribute its  share  of  color.  The  taller  plants  should  be  at 
the  back  and  those  but  a  few  inches  high  in  front.  When 

211 


212  APPENDIX 

the  plan  is  arranged  the  gardener  will  find  it  profitable 
to  make  out  a  calendar  of  the  appearance  of  blossoms; 
that  is,  the  earliest  to  appear,  and  in  their  turn  the  others 
as  they  are  due,  so  that  there  may  be  no  period  when  the 
beds  are  without  color,  from  the  peeping  of  the  first  snow- 
drops to  the  appearance  of  the  latest  hardy  asters  or 
Japanese  anemones. 

As  soil,  moisture,  sunshine,  and  exposure  influence 
plants,  forcing  or  retarding  them,  every  garden  must  be 
planted  to  meet  its  own  conditions,  or  the  perfect  garden 
of  one  location  may  be  a  failure  at  another.  Borders  and 
beds  should  also  admit  the  weeder  and  flower  gatherer. 
It  is  not  well  to  have  too  wide  a  bed,  as  that  necessitates 
stepping  in  among  the  plants. 

In  the  accompanying  charts  the  intention  has  been  to 
guide  the  inexperienced  gardener.  There  are  many  more 
valuable  perennials  than  those  named,  but  those  chosen 
have  been  taken  because  of  their  reliability,  color,  and 
their  ability  to  grow  in  proximity  to  other  plants.  Hap- 
hazard planting  is  as  disastrous  as  inviting  a  mixed  com- 
pany of  guests;  the  ambitions  of  one  plant  may  put 
another  in  the  background,  and  the  greediness  of  one 
crowd  another  out.  Certain  plants  grow  amiably  side 
by  side,  and  these  should  be  placed  in  companionship. 

As  a  rule  all  the  plants  named  will  thrive  in  the 
northern  middle  latitudes.  An  effort  has  been  made  to 
omit  the  delicate  and  the  unusual,  The  magnolia  and 


APPENDIX 


213 


the  jasmine,  which  do  well  in  the  South,  will  not  survive 
the  northern  winter,  and  while  it  is  possible  occasionally 
to  find  a  southern  species  in  the  North,  its  existence  is 
by  chance. 

Each  vicinity  has  species  thriving  well  undej  the  con- 
ditions peculiar  to  it.  Thus  a  garden  maker  in  Denver, 
Minneapolis,  Chicago,  Pittsburg,  or  anywhere  else,  if  he 
be  wise,  will  study  the  gardens  about  him,  and  first  of  all 
buy  the  tested  products  of  home  seedsmen  and  home 
nurseries.  Later  he  may  experiment. 


PERENNIALS  FOR  THE  SPRING 


Color 
Yellow 

Various 
White 

Blue 

White 
Sky  blue 

White 
Various 
Various 
Various 

Pink  and 
white 


Common  Name 

Botanical  Name 

Height 

Cloth    of    Gold 

Crocus   Susi- 

Lowly 

anus 

Spring   crocus 

Crocus  vernus 

Giant    snow- 

Galanthus     El- 

drop 

wesii 

Glory     of     the 

Chionodoxa 

snow 

Luciliae 

Siberian     squill 

Scilla    Sibirica 

Phlox 

Divaricata 

(Canadensis) 

White   rock 

Arabis  albida 

cress 

Dutch   hya- 

Hyacinthus ori- 

cinth 

entalis 

Primrose 

Primula       Sie- 

boldi 

Tulip 

Tulipa  Due  van 

Medium 

Thol 

English    daisy 

Bellis    perennis 

Lowly 

214 


APPENDIX 


PERENNIALS  FOR  THE  SPRING— Continued 


Color 

Common  Name 

Botanical  Name 

Height 

Yellow    red 

Columbine 

Aquilegia 

Medium 

chrysantha 

White 

Lily  of  the  val- 

Convallaria 

Lowly 

ley 

majalis 

White 

Poet's     narcis- 

Narcissus    po- 

Medium 

sus 

eticus 

Various 

Alpine  poppy 

Papaver      alpi- 

num 

Yellow 

Star  daffodil 

Narcissus      in- 

comparabilis 

Yellow 

Jonquil 

Narcissus    Jon- 

quilla 

Various 

Peony 

Paeonia   offici- 

Higher 

nalis 

Bright   red 

Late  tulip 

Tulipa    Gesne- 

riana 

Deep  pink 

Grass  pink 

Dianthus     plu- 

marius 

Rose 

Bleeding    heart 

Dicentra    spec- 

tabilis 

Lavender 

Fleur-de-lis 

Iris   Germanica 

Deep   violet 

Turkey  flag 

Iris  pallida 

Blue 

Forget-me-not 

Myosotis 

White 

St.  Bruno's 

Anthericum 

lily 

White 

Bedding    pansy 

Viola  cornuta 

PERENNIALS  FOR  THE  SUMMER 


Color 

Common  Name 

Botanical  Name 

Height 

Golden   yellow 

Alyssum 

Saxatile      com- 

Lowly 

pactum 

Green 

Old-man 

Artemisia 

Medium 

Dark  blue 

Asters 

Grandiflorus 

Blue  and  white 

Canterbury 

Campanula  me- 

bells 

dium 

APPENDIX 


215 


PERENNIALS  FOR  THE  SUMMER— Co****** 


Color 

Common  Name 

Botanical  Name 

Height 

Sky   blue 

Larkspur 

Delphinium  bel- 

Higher 

ladonna 

Lemon     yellow 

Shasta  daisy 

California  daisy 

Pure  white 

Shasta  daisy 

Shasta  im- 

proved 

Blood   red 

Hardy  pink 

Dianthus  Napo- 

Lowly 

leon  III 

Varied 

Foxglove 

Digitalis    glpx- 

Higher 

iniaeflora 

Purple 

Giant  cone 

Echinacea   pur- 

flower 

purea 

White    and    li- 

Day lily 

Funkia   subcor- 

Medium 

lac 

data 

Orange  red 

Blanket    flower 

Gaillardia 

Higher 

Deep   golden 

Tickseed 

Coreopsis     lan- 

ceolata 

White 

Baby's  breath 

Gypsophila 

Orange 

Sunflower 

Scaber  major 

Tall 

Yellow 

Yellow  day  lily 

Hemerocallis 

Medium 

Rosy  red 

Mallow 

Hibiscus 

Tall 

Various 

Hollyhocks 

Althaea  rosea 

Tall 

Yellow 

St.  John's  wort 

Hypericum 

Moserianum 

Rose  color 

Gloxinia 

Incarvillea 

Medium 

grandiflora 

White 

Hardy  pea 

Lathyrus      lati- 

folius  albus 

Blue 

Lupine 

Lupinus      poly- 

phyllus 

Rosy  purple 

Blazing  star 

Liatris 

Higher 

Fiery   scarlet 

Cardinal  flower 

Lobelia  cardi- 

Medium 

nalis 

Blue 

Lavender 

Lavandula  vera 

Orange     scarlet 

Campion 

Lychnis 

Various 

Oriental    poppy 

Papaver 

2l6 


APPENDIX 


PERENNIALS  FOR  THE  SUMMER-Continued 


Color 

Common  Name 

Botanical  Name 

Height 

Various 

Hardy  phlox 

Phlox    suffruti- 

Higher 

cosa 

Crimson 

Giant  daisy 

Pyrethrum 

Higher 

Blue    and    lilac      Mourning 

Scabiosa     atro- 

Medium 

bride 

purpurea 

Silvery  white 

Meadowsweet 

Spirea  Aruncus 

Kneiffi 

Blue 

Spiderwort 

Tradescantia 

Mixed 

Sweet    William 

Dianthus      bar- 

batus 

Higher 

Orange   scarlet 

Torch  lily 

Tritoma 

Pure  ivhite 

Adam's  needle 

Yucca    filamen- 

Tall 

tosa 

Blue 

Knapweed 

Centaurea 

Medium 

Bright  red 

Bee  balm 

Monarda 

Medium 

didyma 

Rose  or  red 

Beard  tongue 

Pentstemon 

Medium 

PERENNIALS  FOR  THE  AUTUMN 

Color 

Common  Name 

Botanical  Name 

Height 

Golden  yellow 

Golden  rod 

Solidago 

Tall 

Yellow 

Golden  glow 

Rudbeckia 

Yellow 

Sunflower 

Helianthus    an- 

Tall 

nuus 

Yellow 

Sneezewort 

Achillea      ptar- 

mica 

Purple 

Joe-pyeweed 

Eupatorium 

purpureum 

Lilac  and  white 

Michaelmas 

Hardy  asters 

daisy 

Purple  blue 

Monkshood 

Aconitum     au- 

tumnale 

White 

Chrysanthe- 

Pompons 

Medium 

mum 

Yellow 

Evening    prim- 

Oenothera 

Medium 

~-    rose 

glauca 

APPENDIX  217 

SHRUBS  FOR  SUMMER  BLOOM  AND  WINTER  COLOR 

Height 
Time    Common  Name  Botanical  Name         Color  Feet 

April  Golden  bell  Forsythia   yellow    8 

Spiraea  Thunbergii  .  .white   4-6 

May  Japanese  quince  Cydonia  Japonica scarlet   3-6 

Flowering  almond  .  ..Amygdalus  nana pink  5 

Red-fruited  elder   . . .  Sambucus  pubens white    10 

Tartarian  honeysuckle  Lonicera  Tartarica  ..pink  or  white  ...  28 

Common  lilac Syringa  vulgaris  ....purple  or  white..  10 

Double-flowering 

plum    pink    8 

June  European  privet Ligustrum  vulgare  ..white    (black  ber- 
ries)      10 

Old  blush   rose ,. . . .  flesh  pink  6 

Sweetbrier    Rosa  rubiginosa  pink    4 

Hybrid    perpetual 
rose  red,  white  or  pink. 2-3 

Snowball    Viburnum    sterilis    ..white    10 

Snowberry Symphoricarpus  race- 

mosus     pink    5 

Sweet-scented  shrub. .Calycanthus    dark  red  6 

Bridal  wreath Spiraea  hypericifolia.  .white    6 

Golden  spirea   Spiraea  aurea  white    8 

Wahoo  or  burning     Euonymus  atropur- 
bush  pureus   purple    15 

Staghorn  sumac  Rhus  typhina   greenish  yellow  .  .20 

Mock  orange   Philadelphus  or  sy- 

ringa   white    8 

Tamarisk  Tamarix    pink    5 

Early  white  vibur- 
num   Viburnum  lantana  . .  .white    8 

Weigelas    Weigelia   pink    6 

Golden  flowering 
currant  Ribes  aureum yellow    8 

Japanese  barberry  ...Berberis  Japonica  ...red    or   yellow...  4 


218 


APPENDIX 


SHRUBS  FOR  SUMMER  BLOOM  AND  WINTER 
COLOR— Continued 

Height 

Time    Common  Name  Botanical  Name         Color  Feet 

July  Indian  currant  or          Symphoricarpus  vul- 

coral  berry   garis   pink*   4 

High-bush  cranberry. Viburnum  opulus   ...white    8 

Golden-barked  dog- 
wood   Stolonifera  aurea  ...white    12 

Rugosa  roses Rosa  rugosa  pink  or  white 4 

Button  bush  Cephalanthus    white    6 

Aug.  Pepper  bush  Clethra  alnifolia   white    5 

Rose   of  Sharon Hibiscus  Syriacus  ...white  and  rose...io 

Sept.  Hydrangea  Hydrangea    panicu- 

lata  grandiflora   . . .  white  and  rose  . .  5 


OLD-FASHIONED  ANNUALS 


(Common 

Ageratum  or  floss  flower 
Alyssum 

Amaranthus   or    love-lies-bleeding 
Snapdragon 
Hardy  marguerites 
Columbines 
Asters 

Sea-pink  or  thrift 
Lady's-slipper  or  balsam 
Portulaca 
Marigolds 

Calliopsis  or  prettyface 
Coreopsis  or  golden  glory 
Calendula  or  pot  marigold 
Canterbury  bells 
Candytuft 
Cockscomb 
Dusty  miller 
Spider  flowers 
Morning-glory 


Names) 

Scabiosa  or  mourning  bride 

Scarlet  runners 

Sweet  peas 

Verbenas 

Sunflowers 

Four-o'clocks 

Forget-me-nots 

Nasturtiums 

Love-in-a-mist 

Cornflowers 

Pansies 

Phlox 

Johnny- jump-ups 

Feverfew 

Job's-tears 

Cypress  vine 

Angel's-trumpet  or  datura 

Clove  pinks 

Gaillardias 

Shirley  poppies 


APPENDIX  219 

OLD-FASHIONED  ANNUALS— Continued 

Larkspurs  Horn  poppies 

Cosmos  California  poppies 

Pinks  Sunflowers 

Snow-on-the-mountain  Mignonette 

Bachelor's-buttons  Heliotrope 

Immortelles  Phlox  Drummondii 

Hollyhocks  Lupins 

Rockets  Scarlet  sage 

Lobelia  Petunias 

Nicotiana  Balloon  vine 

Chinese  lantern  plant  Zinnias 

Stocks  Periwinkle 

Wallflowers  Violas 
Pentstemons 

HARDY  LILIES 

Lilies  of  the  valley  Funkia  or  day  lily 

St.  Bruno's  lily  Hemerocallis  or  yellow  day  lily 

The  annunciation  lily  Tritoma  or  torch  lily 

St.  Joseph's  lily  Amaryllis 

Lilium  Harrisii  Lilium  Canadense 

Lilium  auratum  Tigrinum  splendens  or  tiger  lily 

Lilium  pardalinum  or  leopard  Lilium  candidum 

lily  Lilium  umbellatum 
Lilium  speciosum  rubrum 

INTERESTING  FLOWERING  BULBS 

Gladiolus— various  colors  Spider  lily,  pancratium 

Ismena  Calathina  Oxalis 

Tuberoses  Tuberous  rooted  begonias 

VINES  WORTHY  OF  CULTURE 

Common  Name  Botanical  Name  Description 

r  glossy   foliage 

Native  bittersweet  \  yellow  flowers 

scandens  [  orange  berries 


220 


APPENDIX 


VINES  WORTHY  OF  CULTURE— Continued 


Common  Name 

Botanical 

Name 

Description 

Japanese  clematis 

Clematis  paniculata 

firm  foliage 
white  blossom 

Virgin's  bower 

Clematis 
Virginiana 

high    climber 
flowers  white 
fragrant 

semi-evergreen 

Hall's  Japanese  honey- 

Japonica 

foliage 

suckle 

Halleana 

cream-colored 

flowers 

f  glossy  foliage 

Scarlet  honeysuckle 

Fuchsioides                    J  red  trumpets 

[  red  berries 

Trumpet  vine 

Bignonia 
radicans 

rich  foliage 
red-orange 

I 

trumpets 

sturdy  foliage 

Wistaria 

Wistaria 

magnifica         J 

fragrant 
cluster  of  blue 

'   1 

flowers 

f  graceful 

Woodbine  or  Virginia 

Ampelopsis                           foliage 

creeper 

quinquefolia                1  red  winter 

[     berries 

Hop  vine 

Humulus 

lupulus          (-graceful 
\     vine 

fdeep  purple 

Clematis  Jackmanii 

Clematis 

Jackmanii        4  velvety 

[     flowers 

Kudzu  vine  or  Jack- 

Pueraria 

Thun-              ( 

a  remarkable 

and-the-beanstalk 

bergiana 

climber 

f  scarlet 

Matrimony  vine 

Lycium 

J  fruit  in 

[     autumn 

APPENDIX 


221 


WINTER  COLOR  IN  BARK  AND  FRUIT 

An  attractive  appearance  may  be  given  to  home  grounds 
in  the  dull  winter  season  by  means  of  a  choice  of  shrubs 
and  decorative  trees  having  blossom  and  foliage  that  are 
equally  desirable  in  the  summer.  The  fruits  of  scarlet, 
orange,  white,  gray,  blue,  or  purplish  tints  give  life  to 
leafless  shrubbery  and  invite  the  birds  and  the  squirrels. 
The  colors  of  bark  and  twigs  when  the  sap  is  rising  show 
marked  differences  which  lend  beauty  to  a  landscape  when 
the  earth  is  bare  or  when  snowdrifts  are  heaped  around. 
Each  of  the  following  shrubs  and  trees  has  its  special  color 
note  for  winter. 


Common  Name 

Winterberry  or  black  alder 

European  barberry 

Japanese  barberry 

Holly  barberry  or  mahonia 

American   redbud  or  Judas-tree 

Sweet  pepper  bush 

Siberian  dogwood 

Blue  dogwood 

Round-leaved  dogwood 

Cornelian  cherry 

Golden-barked  dogwood 

Scarlet  thorn 

Cockspur  thorn 

English  hawthorn  or  May 

Japan  quince 

Silver  thorn 

Bush  honeysuckle 

Burning  bush  or  wahoo 


Botanical  Name 

Ilex  verticillata 
Berberis  vulgaris 
Berberis  Japonica 
Berberis  aquifolium 
Cercis  Canadensis 
Clethra  alnifolia 
Cornus  Siberica 
Cornus  alternifolia 
Cornus  circinata 
Cornus  mas. 

Cornus  stolonifera  aurea 
Crataegus  coccinea 
Crataegus  crus-galli 
Crataegus  oxyacantha 
Cydonia  Japonica 
Eleagnus  edulis 
Bella  Candida 
Euonymus  atropurpureus 


222  APPENDIX 

WINTER  COLOR  IN  BARK  AND  FRUIT-Continued 
Common  Name  Botanical  Name 

Spindle  tree  Euonymus  Europaeus 

Witch-hazel  Hamamelis  Virginica 

Sea  buckthorn  Hippophae  rhamnoides 

Amoor  privet  Ligustrum  Amurense 

European  privet  Ligustrum  vulgare 

Bush  honeysuckle  Lonicera  cserulea 

Matrimony  vine  Lycium 

Nine-bark  spirea  Spiraea  opulifolia 

Hop  tree   (wafer  ash)  Ptelea  trifoliata 

Mountain  currant  Ribes  alpinum 

Shining  rose  Rosa  lucida 

Ramanas  rose  Rosa  rugosa 

Buffalo  berry  Shepherdia  Canadensis 

Snowberry  Symphoricarpus  racemosus 

Coral  berry  Symphoricarpus  vulgaris 

ON  GARDEN  PLANS 

The  most  charming  gardens  are  the  result  of  years  of 
growth  and  reshaping  of  plans.  The  longer  one  works 
over  a  piece  of  ground  the  more  clearly  its  possibilities 
define  themselves.  A  genius  may  create  an  artistic -gar- 
den, planting  as  the  inspiration  seizes  him,  but  the 
average  man  or  woman  needs  a  definite  plan  sketched  on 
paper.  There  must  be  a  certain  symmetrical  arrange- 
ment of  paths  and  beds.  If  the  plan  appears  too  formal 
at  first  it  is  possible  to  modify  it  later.  It  is  far  better  to 
have  a  formal  arrangement  than  to  waste  space  because 
of  lack  of  any  plan. 

Nearly  all  pieces  of  land  are  measured  in  rectangular 
proportions,  and  hence  the  plans  presented  in  this  volume 


APPENDIX  223 

are  for  the  shape  of  the  average  residential  grounds.  It 
is  neither  necessary  nor  desirable  to  follow  any  one  of 
them  exactly.  Parts  of  a  plan  may  be  used,  portions 
rearranged,  and  paths  made  to  suit  convenience.  Though 
the  brotherhood  of  artistic  gardeners  warn  against  the 
garden  plan  and  bedding,  it  must  not  be  forgotten  that 
space  is  more  economically  used  when  defined  in  beds, 
turf,  and  paths.  An  orderly  mind  enjoys  a  plan,  and  can 
break  the  formal  lines  into  curves  of  grace  by  spreading 
border  plants  backward  among  the  taller  plants,  and  by 
the  introduction  of  original  ideas  in  grouping  and  in  the 
placing  of  seats,  arches,  trimmed  box,  or  cedars. 

A  small  suburban  or  city  lot  less  than  a  hundred  feet 
in  length  and  half  as  wide  can  be  made  to  give  an  im- 
pression of  spaciousness,  and  to  deceive  the  eye,  by  means 
of  curving  walks,  shrubbery,  and  receding  borders,  which 
lend  to  the  lines  of  distance. 

At  present  there  are  arguments  for  and  against  paths 
in  gardens.  Equal  numbers  are  arrayed  on  each  side,  and 
when  so  well  balanced  it  is  safe  to  assume  that  each  has 
some  truth  worth  considering.  The  eminent  landscape 
architects  of  the  past,  among  them  Repton,  have  laid 
down  rules  for  paths.  Fashions  in  path  making  change, 
however,  and  while  one  generation  decides  on  gravel 
another  prefers  brick,  a  third  pounded  earth,  a  fourth 
cement,  as  most  practical,  and  the  naturalist  insists  that 
shaven  turf  makes  the  finest  path. 


224  APPENDIX 

A  clean,  well-shaven  lawn  spreading  between  borders 
presents  a  beautiful  appearance;  the  plants  grow  more 
naturally  in  their  frame  of  grass.  The  old  objection  to 
damp  paths  for  the  weeder  is  done  away  with  since  the 
stout  boot  and  the  rubber  shoe  have  been  worn.  The 
borders  of  hardy  flowers  pushing  into  the  lawn,  even  the 
most  lowly — the  daisies,  cowslips,  primulas,  arabis,  myo- 
sotis — seem  to  weave  color  into  the  border  of  green. 

John  Sedding,  a  prince  of  gardeners,  decided  a  path 
should  be  wide  and  excellently  made.  It  should  lead 
directly  from  one  point  to  another,  and  if  it  curved  there 
should  be  a  genuine  reason  for  diverting  its  course,  a 
reason  defended  by  art  or  demanded  by  nature.  A  clump 
of  shrubs,  a  rise  of  the  land,  or  an  obstruction  by  floral 
mound,  fountain,  or  sundial  is  sufficient  to  bend  a  path, 
that  it  may  be  made  more  graceful  in  its  course. 

The  eye  is  better  satisfied  with  definite  boundaries,  and 
seclusion  being  one  of  the  virtues  of  a  garden,  a  hedge, 
stone  wall,  or  shrubbery  may  inclose  it  as  a  frame  does 
a  picture.  Here  and  there  should  be  places  for  real 
retirement  and  privacy,  which  can  be  secured  by  an 
arrangement  of  beds,  arbors,  or  shrubbery.  A  distant 
view  through  an  arch  to  the  landscape  beyond  is  a  pretty 
addition,  •  and  every  means  should  be  employed  so  to 
deceive  the  eye  that,  although  seclusion  is  secured,  a 
narrowed  feeling  is  prevented. 

The  edging  of  beds  is  easily  effected  by  allowing  the 


APPENDIX  225 

lowly  plants  to  run  to  the  margins,  where  the  clipping 
shears  can  cut  them  back  from  the  path  or  lawn.  A 
formal  edge  is  not  considered  in  good  taste,  while  a  good 
deal  of  work  is  necessary  to  keep  it  in  order.  The  simple 
way  of  planting  alyssum,  Iberis  or  the  hardy  candytuft, 
forget-me-nots  and  musk,  pansies  and  primulas,  perennial 
phlox  or  the  conventional  border  of  geraniums,  letting 
the  inner  line  be  broken  by  allowing  plants  to  grow 
irregularly  and  to  mingle  with  other  groups,  is  the  best 
method. 

Weedy  plants  running  to  foliage  rather  than  to  bloom 
should  be  uprooted;  it  is  not  a  kindness  to  nurse  sickly 
plants  in  a  border.  The  whole  aspect  is  spoiled  and  the 
entire  colony  endangered  by  weedy  plants  ready  for 
parasites,  and  sickly  ones  which  may  spread  a  mold  or 
some  other  disease. 

A  lily  bed  may  have  a  straggling  appearance  unless  the 
tall  lilies  have  been  set  in  the  center  or  at  the  back,  and 
the  shorter  at  the  front.  This  rule,  like  all  others,  should 
not  be  observed  so  exactly  in  any  border  or  bed  that 
stiffness  is  the  result.  A  slight  variation  of  a  tall  plant 
breaking  a  line  is  pleasing,  and  an  irregularity  gives  the 
zest  of  novelty.  Among  the  lilies  the  little  dwarf  ground 
plants  make  a  pretty  carpet  over  the  earth  while  setting 
a  background  for  the  stately  blossoms  above  them. 

The  truly  formal  garden  is  so  planned  that  its  form 
catches  the  eye  first  of  all.  It  does  not  follow  that 


226  APPENDIX 

geometrical  beds  should  appear  as  stiff  when  planted  in 
color  as  the  lines  indicate  on  paper.  In  nature  the  har- 
mony of  colors  and  array  of  plants  will  be  the  attraction, 
and  the  orderly  arrangement  of  growing  spaces  merely 
an  item  of  convenience. 

Richard  Jefferies  says  that  birds  love  to  build  in  the 
box  and  the  yew,  but  they  detest  vacant,  draughty  spaces 
underneath,  and  avoid  spindly  laurels  and  rhododendrons. 
"The  common  hawthorn  hedge  around  a  country  garden 
shall  contain  three  times  as  many  nests,  and  shall  be 
visited  by  five  times  as  many  birds  as  the  foreign  ever- 
greens, so  costly  to  rear  and  so  sure  to  be  killed  by  the 
first  old-fashioned  frost." 

The  cedar  walks,  the  wilderness,  and  the  maze  and 
avenues  familiar  in  old  English  gardens  contributed  to 
delightful  ideas  of  seclusion.  There  should  be  shaded 
ways  for  getting  about,  and  cool  retreats  for  hot  days. 
As  Bacon  has  said,  one  ought  not  to  "buy  the  shade  by 
going  into  the  sun"  when  passing  from  one  section  to 
another. 

The  flower  border,  usually  of  the  spring  bulbs  which 
are  succeeded  by  the  perennials,  close  around  the  founda- 
tions of  a  house,  relieves  that  bare  appearance  so  notice- 
able when  the  walls  spring  directly  from  the  ground. 
This  flower  border  should  contain  a  succession  of  plants 
to  keep  blossoms  until  frost,  and  the  plan  should  be 
continued  in  flower  borders  at  the  foot  of  shrubbery, 


APPENDIX  227 

forming,  as  it  were,  a  floral  ribbon  linking  the  house  and 
grounds  to  the  garden.  A  careful  effort  will  prevent  the 
blank  spaces  of  earth  between  clumps  of  perennials  and 
under  the  shrubbery.  The  evergreen  candytuft  and 
dwarf  phlox,  the  starworts  and  anemones,  day  lilies 
and  hardy  ferns  face  the  shrubbery  gracefully.  These 
plants  and  others  of  a  similar  habit  creep  over  the 
ground,  crowding  out  weeds  and  keeping  the  earth 
above  the  roots  moist  and  clean. 

THE  WINDOW  Box 

When  Leigh  Hunt  wrote  a  chapter  of  classic  prose 
on  "A  Flower  for  the  Window"  he  met  an  echo  of  in- 
timate feeling  from  the  hearts  of  many  who  had  owned 
a  potted  plant  or  cherished  a  window  box.  No  one 
can  care  for  flowers  without  accepting  the  rewards  of  un- 
selfishness. Their  dependence  admits  them  among  the 
daily  duties,  and  their  joyful  appearance  in  blossom 
spreads  delight  about  them. 

Among  window  boxes,  as  in  the  majority  of  the  affairs 
of  life,  there  are  the  matter-of-fact  and  the  personal. 
The  first  relate  to  decorative  arrangement  and  the  latter 
to  little  companies  of  flowers  whose  diversity  is  a  matter 
of  individual  taste  and  enjoyment,  and  which  under 
proper  conditions,  though  lifted  away  from  Mother 
Earth,  will  thrive  on  an  insecure  foothold  in  pots  or  re- 
ceptacles perched  on  window  sills. 


228  APPENDIX 

The  window-box  gardener  has  perfect  command  over 
his  resources.  He  can  sum  up  his  advantages  as  well  as 
his  disadvantages  and  control  his  results  with  the  success 
of  one  who  sows  and  reaps  in  larger  grounds.  The  soil 
can  be  prepared,  the  moisture  controlled,  storms  averted, 
and,  the  sunlight  having  been  measured,  the  crops  can  be 
regulated  accordingly. 

The  artistic  possibilities  of  window  boxes  as  accessory 
decorations  to  a  residence  or  even  to  an  estate,  for  their 
use  can  be  extended  to  summer  houses,  barns,  and  the  rail- 
ings of  bridges  and  arched  ways,  may  be  carried  as  far  as 
the  imagination  of  the  gardener  will  go.  The  humblest 
shack  can  be  turned  into  an  artistic  bungalow  and  the  cot- 
tage of  dreary  surroundings  be  made  a  beauty  spot  by  a 
few  plants  in  boxes  on  the  window  sills. 

A  touch  of  color  given  by  scarlet  geraniums,  relieved  by 
the  white  of  feverfew  and  daisies,  the  green  of  their  own 
foliage,  and  an  edge  of  yellow-eyed  musk  above  trailing 
sprays  of  silver-leaved  myrtle  or  the  glossy  English  ivy 
in  the  most  ordinary  of  window  boxes,  against  a  brown 
painted  wooden  wall  or  the  dull  brick  of  the  commonplace 
house,  creates  a  picture.  None  of  these  plants  are  rare 
and  all  endure  more  than  the  average  neglect  of  a  busy 
housekeeper  and  will  thrive  in  a  dry  summer. 

The  practical  person  asks  first  of  all  for  the  box  itself. 
With  money  in  the  purse  one  may  purchase  a  patent  con- 
trivance, self-watering,  safely  drained,  and  fitted  to  the 


APPENDIX  229 

place  it  is  to  occupy.  Certain  boxes  are  made  of  metal, 
others  of  wood  with  metal  pans,  and  others  of  plain  wood 
fashioned  by  the  neighborhood  carpenter.  The  home- 
made box  made  of  odd  pieces  of  lumber  knocked  from 
grocery  boxes  will  do  just  as  well  as  any  of  the  more  ex- 
pensive -patents.  A  dime's  worth  of  paint  will  cover  all 
the  boxes  needed  for  the  front  of  a  house. 

The  quality  of  the  soil  and  the  drainage  are  most  im- 
portant. No  box  need  leak  to  any  extent,  nor  plants 
grow  soggy,  if  the  bottom  of  the  box  has  been  covered 
with  a  layer  of  broken  stone  and  some  charcoal.  Nearly 
every  florist  has  a  heap  of  properly  mixed  mold  from 
which  he  is  willing  to  sell.  It  contains  the  correct  pro- 
portions of  black  earth,  sand,  and  clay  for  flower  culture. 
The  soil  just  under  the  sod  in  vacant  lots  is  also  suitable 
for  this  purpose,  and  in  fact  any  garden  earth  will  do 
that  has  been  enriched  with  manure  finely  worked  over. 

There  are  as  many  ways  of  selecting  what  shall  be  put 
into  the  window  box  as  there  are  gardeners.  For  a  for- 
mal decoration  of  an  English  front  or  a  colonial  type  of 
house  a  simple  hedge  of  small  box  trees  before  the  win- 
dows answers  the  purpose.  Where  there  are  many  win- 
dow decorations  about  a  house  it  is  pleasant  to  introduce 
at  least  one  of  these  quaint  arrangements  to  diffuse  a  pun- 
gent fragrance.  The  box  of  ferns,  or  English  ivy  or 
myrtle  gracefully  trailing,  is -at  once  elegant  and  austere. 
Although  of  only  one  color,  the  tender  greens  kept  fresh 


230  APPENDIX 

and  free  from  dust  add  to  the  beauty  of  their  surround- 
ings. All  of  these  will  grow  on  the  north  side  of  walls, 
or  in  situations  where  the  sun  rarely  shines. 

Among  the  flowering  plants  the  begonias,  pink  and 
scarlet,  and  the  impatiens  sultani  with  attractive  rose- 
hued  flowers,  are  recommended  for  north  or  shaded 
walls. 

The  idea  of  using  one  species  only  to  a  box  is  fre- 
quently productive  of  the  best  results.  The  experienced 
gardener  knows  what  certain  plants  will  do  and  can  ar- 
range in  localities  congenial  to  them  the  abutilon  or 
flowering  maple  with  its  handsome  bells,  or  the  blue 
ageratum,  or  the  orange  and  red  lantanas,  or  plants  af- 
fording flowers  for  vases. 

Some  years  ago  a  certain  section  of  London  attracted 
visitors  because  of  the  cheerful  fronts  of  the  houses, 
trimmed  with  window  boxes.  On  investigation  it  was 
discovered  that  a  florist  took  the  contract  for  the  summer 
and  filled  the  boxes  with  potted  geraniums,  and  various 
other  plants,  removing  a  pot  whenever  the  plant  faded. 
This  practical  method  commends  itself  to  many,  especi- 
ally to  those  in  the  city  who  have  little  time  for  the  care 
of  a  window  box. 

By  planting  in  pots  set  in  the  larger  receptacle  the  dis- 
play may  be  changed  with  the  season.  Boxes  with 
bulbs,  such  as  scillas,  hyacinths,  daffodils,  and  tulips,  may 
appear  with  the  first  warm  spring  days.  These  should 


APPENDIX  231 

be  followed  by  pansies,  daisies,  forget-me-nots,  and 
potted  stocks,  and  these  in  their  turn  can  give  way  to 
nasturtiums  or  specimens  of  the  splendid  hydrangeas  and 
scarlet  salvias  and  chrysanthemums  for  the  fall.  While 
every  window  box  need  not  harbor  the  same  plants,  it 
follows  that  those  on  the  same  wall  should  harmonize  in 
color,  and  that  there  should  be  some  relation  between 
them. 

In  the  selection  of  plants  the  question  of  exposure  is 
an  important  one.  How  much  sunshine  pours  directly 
on  the  wall*?  Is  this  the  side  of  the  prevailing  storms'? 
Is  this  wall  always  in  shadow,  owing  to  a  neighboring 
house?  Is  the  situation  exposed  or  protected? 

Some  plants  will  endure  neglect,  survive  a  hot  summer, 
revive  if  drowned  by  careless  watering,  and  manage  to 
exist  with  a  semblance  of  cheerful  courage.  Others,  ap- 
parently hardy,  will  refuse  to  put  up  with  unsympathetic 
treatment  and  will  lie  down  and  die.  While  the  oppor- 
tunity of  the  window  gardener  is  great,  he  must  exercise 
a  degree  of  common  sense  and  realize  that  there  are 
plants  which  will  refuse  confinement,  and  that  his  success 
must  lie  among  plants  that  have  been  tested. 

A  gay  household  decoration  can  be  secured  by  plant- 
ing the  seeds  of  annuals.  The  pot  marigolds  or  calen- 
dulas repay  with  an  abundance  of  yellow  flowers;  the 
cypress  vine  or  burning  bush  is  an  annual  of  interesting 
hnbits  in  its  change  of  color,  and  indeed  nearly  every 


232  APPENDIX 

annual — nasturtiums,  phlox,  and  the  like — can  be  made 
to  thrive  and  to  be  a  pleasure  to  the  one  who  cultivates 
them. 

The  following  rules  for  the  selection  of  plants  have 
been  drawn  from  long  experience.  A  very  sunny  expos- 
ure can  be  modified  by  preparing  a  screen  of  cheesecloth 
or  paper  to  shelter  the  plants  during  the  hottest  hours  of 
the  day.  The  west  wall  suffers  more  than  the  east  or 
the  south  wall  from  the  heat  of  the  afternoon  sun.  The 
morning  hours  are  cooler,  tempering  the  rays  of  the  sun 
before  midday,  and  the  light  on  south  walls  is  continu- 
ally changing.  The  north  wall,  gray,  cool,  and  often 
damp,  must  be  accepted  as  it  is,  but  as  previously  stated 
there  are  plants  of  a  delicate  nature  which  thrive  best 
under  these  conditions.  Among  these  it  is  possible  to  em- 
phasize the  ferns  and  begonias,  fuchsias  and  impatiens. 

Under  average  conditions,  for  the  flower  box  on  a 
shaded  exposure  select  scarlet  and  white  geraniums,  of 
which  there  is  a  good  variety,  rose  geraniums,  pelar- 
goniums or  Lady  Washingtons,  begonias  (coral  and 
white),  feverfew,  marguerites,  spirea  (white),  lobelia 
(blue),  petunias  (purple  and  white),  impatiens  (rose), 
verbenas  (many  colors),  and  ivy  geraniums  and  ageratum 
(blue). 

For  a  sunny  exposure,  either  south,  east,  or  west,  choose 
any  of  the  above  and  to  them  add  the  sun-loving  helio- 
trope, the  single  petunias,  periwinkles,  and  coleus,  a 


APPENDIX  233 

decorative  foliage  plant.  The  nasturtiums  will  adapt 
themselves  to  any  situation  if  the  soil  is  right  and  there  is 
not  too  much  wind.  The  fragrant  gilliflower,  hardy 
sedums  and  saxifrage,  sweet-scented  musk,  lemon  ver- 
bena, and  mignonette  take  kindly  to  box  culture  when 
their  needs  are  considered.  The  oxalis  is  a  dainty  foliage 
plant  with  delicate  bloom,  and  when  foliage  is  consid- 
ered the  nearest  florist  usually  has  some  fern  or  trailing 
vine  which  he  knows  is  a  reliable  friend. 

A  CHILD'S  GARDEN 

It  is  true  that  the  open  heart  of  childhood  enjoys  every 
flower  that  blows.  The  work  of  gardening,  however,  does 
not  appeal  to  every  child  any  more  than  it  appeals  to 
every  grown  person.  It  is  dutiful  work,  and  the  imagi- 
nation does  not  run  far  enough  ahead  to  show  the  young 
person  what  is  to  come  from  the  seeds.  All  flowers  are 
mysteries  and  beautiful,  but  the  child  takes  more  kindly 
to  those  that  have  an  association  with  pleasant  sensations 
of  beauty  and  fragrance,  as  the  sweet  pea  and  the  rose, 
or  that  may  be  linked  in  some  way  with  his  toys  or  his 
sports,  as  the  gourds,  larkspurs  for  chains,  and  Job's-tears 
for  bead  strings. 

The  following  list  has  been  made  especially  for  a 
child's  garden,  and  to  it  may  be  added  the  popular  an- 
nuals noted  for  color  and  fragrance. 


234 


APPENDIX 


FOR  A  CHILD'S  GARDEN 


snapdragons 

balsams 

clove  or  grass  pinks 

foxgloves 

ostrich  plumes 

oxeye  daisies 

sweet  Williams 

sunflowers 

red  sunflowers 

Johnny- j  ump-ups 

star-eyed  phlox 

dusty  millers 

Job's-tears 

morning-glories 

goldenrod 

four-o'clocks 

mourning  bride 

bird  of  paradise 

English  daisies 

love-in-a-mist 


columbines 

Black  Prince  poppies 

balsam  apple 

quaking  grass 

prettyface 

black-eyed    Susans 

Canterbury  bells 

canary-bird  vine 

Mexican  fire  plant 

hen  and  chickens 

snow  on  the  mountain 

coleus  (rainbow  mixture) 

cosmos 

cypress  vine 

lady's  paint  brush 

angel's  breath 

Chinese  lantern 

Chinese  bellflower 

forget-me-not 

cypress  vine 


asters 

sweet  peas 

zinnias 

blanket    flower 

balloon  vine 

pouch   flower 

Venus's-looking-glass 

coxcomb 

bachelor's-buttons 

ragged  robins 

larkspurs 

cigar  plant 

gourds 

hollyhocks 

marigolds 

catchflies 

martynia 

musk   plant 

torch  lilies 

burning  stars 


THE  ROSE  GARDEN 

The  rose  is  a  decorative  plant  of  the  highest  order. 
There  is  an  increasing  feeling  in  England  that  the  rose 
must  come  back  to  the  flower  garden  in  its  natural  beauty. 
The  prize  rose  growers  are  to  blame  for  the  mistreat- 
ment of  one  of  the  fairest  flowers,  trimming  it  and 
training  it  to  standards,  pruning  it  away  from  its  natural 
style  as  a  plant,  and  forcing  it  for  the  sake  of  size  in 
blossom  until  we  have  lost  sight  of  the  true  value  of 
rosebushes  and  climbers. 

The   failure   of   many   rose   gardens   is   due   to   the 


APPENDIX  235 

importation  of  strange  stock.  Every  locality  has  its 
native  roses,  and  there  is  no  corner  of  the  world  which  has 
vegetation  but  possesses  its  own  wild  roses  susceptible 
of  cultivation.  About  all  cottages  grow  June  roses  and 
monthly  roses  which,  by  reason  of  their  being  familiar, 
escape  the  gardener  in  search  of  fine  things.  These  the 
home  gardener,  planting  a  rose  garden,  will  use  first  of 
all,  giving  them  the  places  they  like  best.  In  return  there 
will  be  no  disappointments  such  as  he  might  have  had  if 
he  had  sent  a  thousand  miles  for  a  rare  rose  which  must 
be  acclimated. 

A  rose  garden  should  have  loam  at  least  three  feet 
deep.  Its  surface  should  be  varied,  and  while  room 
enough  be  given,  no  space  should  be  allowed  for  foolish 
standards.  Let  each  rose  tree  do  its  best  after  its  natural 
habit;  the  climbing  rose  has  its  wall  or  trellis,  the  creep- 
ing rose  its  rock  heap,  and  in  place  of  teasing  the  soil,  let 
nature  take  it  in  hand  by  planting  rbckfoils,  stone  crops, 
violets,  myosotis,  and  little  Alpine  plants  which  cover 
the  ground  with  a  delicate  carpet,  and  mulch  the  roots 
naturally.  Any  one,  by  using  home  roses,  can  have  a 
successful  rose  garden. 

A  WATER  GARDEN 

A  brook  or  the  margin  of  a  lake  or  stream  is  a  fortu- 
nate accessory  to  a  garden.  It  may  be  the  means  of 
low  areas  for  the  bog  plants,  orchids,  and  lilies,  and  a 


236  APPENDIX 

vegetation  not  possible  under  any  other  circumstances. 
Aquatic  plants  grow  easily.  They  demand  sunshine, 
water,  and  a  foothold  in  rich  earth,  all  of  which  can  be 
supplied  in  a  cement  tank  or  a  buried  cask,  and  if  set 
there  the  average  water  lily,  hyacinth,  or  cress  will  take 
up  the  task  of  blossoming  as  if  in  its  native  haunts. 

An  earthy  margin  affords  the  opportunity  for  the  half- 
aquatic  plants  and  the  sweet  flags,  the  sagittaria,  and  the 
arum  lilies.  Again  emphasizing  the  supplies  of  a  local- 
ity, the  reader  is  reminded  that  each  district  has  its  native 
water  plants,  which  thrive  amazingly  when  brought 
under  cultivation.  After  these  have  been  chosen  the 
water  garden  may  accept  the  rarer  lilies. 

The  Victoria  regia  or  royal  water  lilies  are  grateful 
in  the  home  garden.  The  hardy  nymphseas  of  both 
European  and  American  stock  and  the  Nelumbiums  may 
be  depended  upon  where  the  water  has  a  circulation. 
The  Nelumbium  speciosum  or  Egyptian  lotus  has  superb 
flowers  and  magnificent  foliage,  and  the  Nelumbium 
luteum  or  American  lotus,  the  water  chinquepin,  is  nearly 
as  magnificent. 

The  edge  of  a  water  garden  is  framed  picturesque!) 
by  clumps  of  Egyptian  papyrus,  pampas  grass,  typha 
latifolia  or  cat-tail,  and  the  decorative  zizania  aquatica 
or  wild  rice.  The  ornamental  possibilities  of  these  is 
very  great.  The  Montevidiensis,  or  giant  arrowhead,  is 
a  persistent  grower. 


APPENDIX  237 

In  the  native  woods  every  brook  has  its  fringe  of 
flowering  plants.  There  children  gather  the  crowfoot 
buttercup,  blue  and  white  violets,  forget-me-nots,  and 
fragile  flowers  which  will  form  a  pretty  border  and  be- 
come domesticated  in  the  cultivated  grounds  where  the 
brook  is  the  flow  from  a  water  pipe  or  an  irrigating  ditch 
instead  of  a  natural  stream.  A  dwarf  iris  and  a  spirea, 
one  of  five  acceptable  varieties,  is  to  be  depended  upon, 
as  well  as  the  ever  reliable  marsh  marigolds,  hemerocallis, 
"flowering  fern"  or  Osmunda  regalis,  Senecio  japonica 
which  has  handsome  deep  yellow  flowers,  and  the  Inula 
helenium  of  the  sunflower  family. 

For  shaded  nooks  near  the  water  there  are  still  more 
members  of  the  widespread  iris  family,  and  few  places 
are  better  adapted  for  the  growing  of  primroses,  popu- 
larly known  as  primulas  and  cowslips.  The  Mertensia 
or  Virginian  cowslip,  with  its  blue  bells,  and  the  culti- 
vated dodecatheon  or  shooting  stars,  prefer  moist  shade. 
In  such  places,  too,  the  wild-flower  gatherer  will  plant 
the  trillium  grandiflorum,  the  lobelia  cardinalis  or 
cardinal  flower,  the  wild  geranium,  and  the  perennial 
wind-flowers. 

The  finer  species  of  ferns  seek  the  waterside.  A  per- 
manent fern  bed,  to  accomplish  anything  of  a  luxuriant 
nature,  must  have  the  native  ferns  of  adjacent  groves  for 
its  mainstay.  The  adiantum  or  maidenhair  is  more  hardy 
than  it  appears,  provided  it  has  shade  and  moisture.  The 


238  APPENDIX 

royal  ferns  and  feather  ferns  vary  the  plantation.  North 
America  has  a  noble  assortment  of  ferns,  and  to  these  it 
is  possible  to  add  a  number  acclimated  from  Japan. 

In  gathering  up  the  threads  of  thought  about  gardens, 
it  seems  as  if  a  well-made  garden  resembles  an  embroid- 
ered fabric  in  which  every  inch  has  been  utilized  for 
design  and  every  possibility  touched  upon.  Such  is  the 
thought  conveyed  by  old  gardens  where  the  stone  walls, 
the  stepping  stones,  and  the  ascending  ways  are  made 
the  support  or  background  of  "flowers  in  the  crannied 
wall."  Alpine  plants  cling  to  ledges,  violas  look  from 
nooks  where  a  handful  of  earth  has  given  the  roots 
encouragement,  the  stonecrops  and  rockfoils  make  velvet 
on  the  balustrades,  and  Alpine  toadflax  fringes  graveled 
paths. 

The  creeper-shaded  walk  under  the  pergola  is  a  natural 
part  of  the  scheme.  It  is  not  conscious  art,  nor  an  arched 
way  conspicuous  in  the  plan,  but  a  trellis  festooned  with 
grape  vines,  Banksian  roses,  wistaria,  clematis,  honey- 
suckle, passion  flowers  on  their  lacey  vines,  flame-red 
trumpet  flowers,  or  other  climbers  which  have  found 
support.  The  springing  arches  over  parting  ways  admit- 
ting from  one  fragrant  plantation  to  another  are  devices 
for  holding  the  great  design  in  unity,  and  seem  to  be 
there  by  chance  for  the  adventures  of  convolvulus, 


APPENDIX  239 

morning-glory,    scarlet   runners,    or   other   light-minded 
climbing  plants. 

A  handful  of  earth  in  sunshine  and  rain  may  be  the 
cradle  of  violets,  of  the  rose  of  a  hundred  leaves,  or  of 
the  fruitful  corn.  What  then  are  the  possibilities  of 
a  garden*? 

"O  universal  Mother,  who  dost  keep 
From  everlasting  thy  foundations  deep, 
Eldest  of  things,  Great  Earth,  I  sing  to  thee." 


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